


500 Words You Should Know

by Fire_Sign



Series: 500 Words [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Gen, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-22 14:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 21,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4838696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short (mostly Phrack) fics based on word prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 199. Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> I explained this a little more on Tumblr, but some of my prime writing time is also not prime plot/smut writing time. Decided I needed a challenge, and am now writing drabbles/short fics based on randomly selected words from the book "500 Words You Should Know" by Caroline Taggart. If you want to play, hit me up with a number from 1-500 and I'll either write the prompt or supply the word for you to use, just specify which.
> 
> First up is Gambit, for [crazycatschickenlady.](http://crazycatschickenlady.tumblr.com/)

> #### gambit
> 
> ˈɡambɪt/  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1\. an act or remark that is calculated to gain an advantage, especially at the outset of a situation.  
>  "his resignation was a tactical gambit"
> 
> 2\. (in chess) an opening move in which a player makes a sacrifice, typically of a pawn, for the sake of a compensating advantage.

* * *

 

"Do you enjoy draughts, inspector?" Phryne asked.

After one particularly illuminating night in the boudouir with Scotland's national champion, Phryne had come to believe that a man's gambit on the draughts board said a great deal about the man himself. Said belief had been bolstered by anecdotal evidence many times since then, and it was a method she was now willing to employ on the shockingly reticent Detective Inspector Robinson.

"I dabble, from time to time," said Jack.

She retrieved the draughts board, trying to guess his preferred method of play. Most likely tactical, slow, and easily mistaken for incompetence until the moment he triumphed, she thought. It was her favourite sort of game.

Jack finished his glass of whiskey, then sat down behind the white pieces.

That _was_ a first.

"Your go, I believe, Miss Fisher."


	2. 59. Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 59\. Catharsis. By special request of my oldest child, who enjoyed choosing a number even if he had no idea why.

 

> #### catharsis
> 
>  kəˈθɑːsɪs/
> 
> _noun_
> 
> noun: **catharsis** ; plural noun: **catharses**
> 
>   
>  **1**. the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.
> 
>  

* * *

It was one of the last warm evenings of summer, and Phryne was in bed with her latest novel at a shockingly early time. There was a knock on her door.

"Inspector Robinson for you, Miss."

She jumped out of bed, not bothering to change from her pyjamas.

"Jack!" she called as she came down the stairs. "Excuse the robe, but I was tucked into bed with cognac and D.H. Laurence for once. I thought you were working late this evening?"

He was stood in her parlour, looking far too sombre.

"I was. I am," he clarified. She realised that he was still holding his hat, which he moved from hand to hand. "I'm here in an official capacity."

Oh God. Had something happened to Dot, who was supposed to be spending the night at her mother's? Or Jane perhaps- if something had happened to her the consulate would no doubt contact the local police force to make notifications. She gripped the back of the nearest chair.

"Your household is all well," he hurriedly reassured her. "Murdoch Foyle died earlier this evening. Heart attack, they believe."

"And you?"

"I have no reason to doubt them. But given the history, I've sent Collins to sit with the body."

"Can I see him?" she asked.

"Officially? Absolutely not. So try not to dress too ostentatiously."

Whatever would she do without Jack?

She dressed quickly, foregoing even her usual make-up.

"There's nobody left to collect the body," Jack said as he drove towards the morgue. "He will be cremated and buried in a pauper's grave, without even a headstone to mark him."

Good, she thought. Nothing would gall that monster quite so much as being forgotten completely. It couldn't happen while she was alive, but one day.

The morgue was quiet, the only one there dear Hugh.

"You're dismissed, Collins," said Jack. "Thank you."

Phryne pulled the sheet back from Foyle's face. The man, the nightmare of many nights, seemed so small. So very irrelevant. It was over, truly and completely over with nothing left but slowly mending hearts and the memories. 

Jack brought in two chairs, and she took a seat without thought. They sat together, hands simply touching in a silent understanding. The quiet was only occasionally broken by Phryne sharing an amusing anecdote about Janey- her fierce determination to sing despite the fact that even sisterly love could not find it tolerable, her favourite book, games they had played.

"I'm sorry, Jack," she said eventually, realising that several hours must have passed. "I'm keeping you from your duties."

"My shift ended at 11," he said simply. "I had nowhere else I needed to be."

How sweet a friendship, when nothing more needed to be said.  
 

 


	3. 99. Cupidinous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 99, by request of my middle child. A word I had never heard before! I had to hodge-podge together a definition for this one. 
> 
> And again, hit me up if you want to write or be written a prompt. [List of used prompts with a link to the fill can be found here.](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/500Words/profile#faq)

> #### Cupidinous
> 
> /kyuˈpɪd n əs/ 
> 
> _adjective_
> 
> To be full of eager or excessive desire, especially to possess something; greed; avarice.

* * *

 

"Come on Jack, there must be something you want. Some cupidinous desire that you would never indulge on your own," Phryne wheedled, toying with the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. "It's your birthday, and I do so enjoy spoiling my friends."

"A friend, am I?" he asked, kissing her bare shoulder.

"The very best sort of friend," she laughed. "But I'm not to be deterred."

They had been half-heartedly arguing about the matter for a week. Phryne determined to spend obscene amounts of money, Jack equally determined not to allow it. She seemed to think it a matter of pride, but he simply saw no need.

"Your chairs," he conceded, as he knew he eventually would. This would at least benefit her as well. "In the library. They aren't particularly comfortable, and I seem to spend more time in there than you do. Nothing outrageous, but... your chairs."

"Oh, what a _marvellous_ idea. I think something can be arranged."

\---

  
The chairs were enormous, overstuffed monstrosities. Absolutely hideous, if he was being honest, and probably cost a year's salary. Phryne seemed so pleased with them though, an almost childishly gleeful grin on her face.

"Sit!" Phryne said eagerly, pushing a book into his hand.

He obliged. Oh, they were gloriously comfortable. It wasn't as if he had to look at them while he was sitting it one, after all. He looked at the book Phryne had passed to him and laughed. _Lady Chatterley's Lover_. It was almost tame. He opened the book and began to read.

"Do you know why I chose these chairs?" she asked from behind him a moment later.

He looked up from his novel just as she shimmied, utterly naked, into view. He gulped.

"Why?"

She straddled his lap, then leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"They're big enough for two."

Well, perhaps there was no harm in the occasional indulgence.


	4. 182. Fallacious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat inspired by a conversation on Tumblr where people wondered if Jack had apologised to Mac for her arrest in Death By Miss Adventure. Decided to rewatch to get a feel of the character interactions at that stage and realised that Jack doesn't seem to believe in her guilt, so the story twisted slightly.
> 
> For [LunaLove-blr](http://lunalove-blr.tumblr.com/)

 

> #### Fallacious
> 
>  fəˈleɪʃəs/  
>  _adjective_
> 
>   
>  **1.** containing a fallacy; logically unsound: fallacious arguments.
> 
> **2.** deceptive; misleading.

* * *

 "I would have preferred to do that in a more private venue," Inspector Robinson said, almost apologetically.

Mac sat in the back of the police car as they pulled away from the hospital. She numbly wondered what fallacious accusation had led to her arrest. Her bedroom predilections, perhaps, though hopefully Daisy's involvement was left out of it. The word of a worker who found her approach towards family planning morally repugnant. There was no end to the possibilites, really. She had genuinely thought the matter cleared up, the inspector as sensible as Phryne had often said.

"Surely you can't believe that I _killed_ Gaskin."

"What I believe is irrelevant, Doctor MacMillan. I have to follow the evidence. And right now, the evidence suggests Gaskin was killed by an intravenous injection in the timeframe you were with him."

Well, that was actually damning. After a minute, Jack spoke again.

"I can't say that I look forward to informing Miss Fisher of the arrest, though."

Mac snorted. "Perhaps it's best to leave it."

"At least until the matter is cleared up," agreed Jack.

Mac did not share his seeming confidence that it would be cleared up. Still, she thought, she had to give some grudging respect to Phryne's inspector; it took a great deal of courage to stick to your convictions when a furious Phryne Fisher was the inevitable end.


	5. 392. Punctilious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 392\. Punctilious
> 
> A mini-minific, for edeainfj/deedeeinfj who is (hopefully) also writing for this word.

 

 

> #### Punctilious

>  
> 
> pʌŋ(k)ˈtɪlɪəs
> 
> _adjective_
> 
> showing great attention to detail or correct behaviour.
> 
>  

* * *

 

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was a very careful man. It was impossible not to notice. His appearance, hair and clothes both without a hint of unruliness; his work, desk tidy and his reports thorough and complete; his interactions always the epitome of propriety. There were rules he adhered to strictly, even as he subverted others; she'd seen as much early on, when he'd given her the damning photographic plates of Charlie. He was conscientious, thorough, self-contained. Punctilious in every regard.

It was, perhaps, why she enjoyed flustering him so much.


	6. 56. Capricious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For michelle02132.  
> I am only 99% sure this isn't contradicted by canon, but if it is just ignore the fact entirely.

 

 

 

> #### Capricious
> 
> _adjective_
> 
>  given to sudden and unaccountable changes of mood or behaviour.

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Phryne, you can't be serious!"

Mac thought she was well used to Phryne Fisher's capricious whims, but this took the proverbial cake.

"I'm completely serious. Flying my father home is the only option."

Mac could think of half a dozen better ones without moving from her seat. Convincing _her_ of the fact was another thing entirely.

"I don't want a repeat of Istanbul."

"It won't be a repeat of Istanbul. You know I mapped out a hypothetical route to go for the record last year, before I decided to stay in Melbourne."

She had, and would no doubt have an argument for every objection on that front. Another tactic then.

"It's not your responsibility to make your parents happy, Phryne."

"I know. But I have to try."

Mac sighed. That was an argument as old as their friendship, one unlikely to be settled any time soon.

"Are you sure you're not running from something or someone else?" she asked.

It was an unscrupulous ploy, but desperate times called for desperate measures and Inspector Robinson surely wouldn't mind.

"Jack?" She actually seemed surprised. "No, Mac, but thank you for the concern."

Mac took a sip of her drink, then fixed Phryne with the firm glare that often made her confess the truth. It was a rare and powerful weapon to have in one's arsenal, and she employed it sparingly.

"I'm not running, Mac!" Phryne exclaimed. A huge grin- warm and honest and a little bit shy, the sort of smile she saved for the moments of her greatest happiness- filled her face. "It's the scariest thing I've ever done, but I'm firmly Not Running."

"I'd ask if _he_ knows that, but the less I hear about the whole thing the better. I still have to look that man in the eye over corpses, and imagining him _in flagrante delicto_ is too much for even my sensibilities."

"He compared me to a telescope."

Phryne was actually smiling about that.

"Oh God, save me now!" Mac muttered. She liked the man, but there were _limits_ , boundaries to maintain. "Your farewell party better have some very good liquor to make it bearable."

"When does it not?" Phryne replied, raising her glass in a toast.

"To caprice," said Mac.

When you've known someone for nearly twenty years, they knew when you meant " _I love you. Be careful. Come home soon._ "


	7. 16. Anachronism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phryne hosts a party sometime late season 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @afterdinnerminx. Not a terribly good use of the word, but the idea amused me.

 

 

 

 

> #### anachronism

>  
> 
> əˈnakrəˌnɪz(ə)m
> 
> _noun_
> 
>  a thing belonging or appropriate to a period other than that in which it exists, especially a thing that is conspicuously old-fashioned.
> 
>  
> 
>  

* * *

"It was an anachronism. The entire thing was full of them," Jack said to a young woman whose name he hadn't quite caught.

A quick, short tug on his arm turned him to face an irate Miss Fisher.

"Jack!" she hissed. "You are here to be supportive, not critical."

Phryne was hosting an opening party for Raymond's film, and Wardlow was teeming with people. She had insisted that Jack come, to celebrate his Very Important Contribution to the process, and he found himself unable to resist as he so often did. It didn't mean he had to enjoy himself.

"Is that why I'm here?"

She took a sip of champagne and fixed him with a frosty glare.

"If you don't mind your manners, I'll tell that darling girl swooning over you that you are, in fact, the shining star that saved the film."

The 'darling girl' had made a hasty retreat when she had seen Phryne, but Jack wasn't one to quibble.

"You wouldn't dare, Miss Fisher."

"Wouldn't I?"

The plume on her rather ridiculous hat bobbed slightly as she stared, challenging him. He smirked.

"You know, I really don't think you would."

"Clothilde, darling!" Phryne called.

The girl froze. It was probably the sensible choice when faced with the threat of Phryne Fisher. Miss Fisher was not to be deterred though, and quickly grabbed Jack's arm once more to propel him across the room.

"I'm so sorry I interrupted your conversation," Phryne said in a tone that was far too sweet for Jack's comfort. "I just needed to consult Jack on a very important manner. You see, if it weren't for him the whole film would have just fallen apart."

"Really?" the girl asked, clearly impressed.

"Oh yes. He provided some vital dialogue. We would have been completely lost without him."

"How utterly marvelous!"

The girl's eyes were wide.

"He has such a wonderful voice, don't you agree? It's nearly good enough for the wireless, if you ask me."

Jack nearly choked on his drink. He was pretty certain that she would never let him live down his brief stint as Archie Jones. The girl- Matilda? Clothilde?- nodded in agreement with Phryne's assessment.  
"Anyway, I'll just leave you two to get back to your conversation. I need to see how Raymond is doing- he was a bundle of nerves this morning."

As Miss Fisher turned to leave, she met Jack's eyes and grinned, secure in the knowledge that she had won that round. Jack found he didn't mind, as long as he got to play.

 


	8. 403. Rambunctious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For RakishAngle(afterdinnerminx). I fear I might not have lived up to the expectations of a beloved word. 
> 
> I spent 40 minutes looking and cross-referencing saints canonization years deciding on this kid's name, only to go with my first choice. To be fair, I wanted to use a saint associated with animals (because nothing sums Dot up quite as much as her prayers for the zebra with the gammy leg) and THOUGHT it was Agnes, but I was clearly confusing Agnes of Assisi with Francis of Assisi, who is THE patron saint of animals. 
> 
> Again, if you're interested in a number to write or have written, hit me up. Master list is [here.](http://firesign23.tumblr.com/post/129656518192/500-words-game-master-post)

> #### Rambunctious
> 
> /ræmˈbʌŋk ʃəs/ 
> 
> _ adjective _
> 
>  1\. difficult to control or handle; wildly boisterous:
> 
>  2\. turbulently active and noisy

* * *

 

  
"Change of plans, I'm afraid," Phryne greeted Jack at the door, toddler in her arms.

The girl launched herself at Jack.

"Unc Sir!" she screeched.

Jack took Agnes, then gave Phryne a sympathetic smile.

"Dot ill again?"

"Unfortunately. The last time she was this sick was when Aggie came along, but I believe we're all pretending not to think so. Hugh's mother is still bearing a grudge and won't lift a finger to make Dot's life easier, and her own mother's out of town. I told her that she could stay with us and have Mr. Butler at her disposal, but the silence of an empty house helps her sleep through the nausea. So this little monster gets to spend the day with us."

Phryne reached over to tickle Agnes; she was quite fond of the child, though she denied it with a laughing "I only like people who speak sense, and while she's an improvement on some in my acquaintance, I don't think she qualifies quite yet." Never to Dot or Hugh, of course, who both (quite rightfully) thought their daughter was the very model of perfection, but at times when they were alone.

"I'm just going to change, as the young lady has already tried to remove my brooch three times and eat my earrings once. Be good for Uncle Sir, monster."

The girl gave a tiny roar in response. Jack took Agnes into the parlour, retrieving her beloved toy kitten and handing it over. He had become Uncle Sir rather unintentionally, but as his own nieces and nephews were nearly grown he found he quite enjoyed it. Agnes was the sweetest little thing, all dark eyes and blonde hair; she was also an absolute trouble magnet, according to her father. Jack couldn't say he saw it himself.

\---

"I thought girls were supposed to be the demure sort of child? Dolls and books and such."

Phryne looked at him over the rim of her sunglasses.

"How many of my childhood exploits have you been privy to?" she asked.

"Fair point."

So far they had retrieved her from the parlour window and a bookshelf, had gone outside to play hide-and-seek only to find her halfway up a bush with leaves in her hair when they turned away for a minute, and had the brilliant idea that a picnic by the seaside would keep her busy and out of trouble.

It had not.

"Come on then, Aggie-monster! Let's race to the water!"

And with that Phryne was gone, Agnes's hand in hers. Jack watched the woman he loved splash and laugh in the shallow water and marvelled at the sheer wonder of his life; such bliss had been unfathomable only a few years earlier, before Phryne had barged her way into his life.

"Come on in, Jack! The water is lovely."

"Unc Sir! Unc Sir!" yelled Agnes in agreement.

Well, how could he resist?

  
\---

"She's a very dear little girl, really. Hugh and Dot have been wonderful," Phryne said that evening, once Agnes was safely returned to her father for the night.

"Finally admitting she has you wrapped around her finger?"

"I wouldn't go that far. What about you- does she ever make you regret not having children?"

"There is something appealing in overenthusiastic hugs and the sheer joy of life," Jack said, sinking deep into a chair. "But as happy as I am to see her, I'm even happier when she goes home again. One rambunctious woman is all this old man can handle."


	9. 14. Ameliorate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14\. Ameliorate, for izzyandlouie.
> 
> All attempts to expand on this idea ended up muddling it, but I'm not entirely certain the brevity works.

 

 

> #### Ameliorate
> 
> əˈmiːlɪəreɪt
> 
> _verb_
> 
> make (something bad or unsatisfactory) better.
> 
>  

* * *

"This tonic should ameliorate some of the symptoms and help your sleep," the doctor says.  
  
His best mate, Robbo, takes a drag of his cigarette and looks up at the night sky.  
"It will be better to go home, where the sky looks right."  
  
"It's a good job, Jack, and it's yours. It's the best path for more promotions," George Sanderson says. It feels wrong, somehow, but he takes it.  
  
"Come visit," says his mother. "A change of scenery will do you good. Sydney's lovely."  
"Get out there, Jackie," says his father. "Find something to invest in."  
  
"A baby, doesn't that sound nice Jack? Just like we planned," Rosie says, tears in her eyes. He nods numbly, but the baby never comes.

Phryne listens.


	10. 382. Prolific

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First update in awhile and my last prompted number, unless somebody wants to challenge me. Otherwise I'll have to use a random number generator and be tempted to cheat. 
> 
> I've been fiddling around with the collection settings because I have no idea what I'm doing. I can't seem to find a way to respond if you request a number through it though, so if anybody is still interested and I haven't responded I am sorry! Leave a comment here or through [Tumblr](http://firesign23.tumblr.com/).

 

> #### Prolific
> 
> prəˈlɪfɪk/ _  
> adjective_
> 
> 1\. producing offspring, young, fruit, etc., abundantly; highly fruitful: _a prolific pear tree_.
> 
> 2\. producing in large quantities or with great frequency; highly productive: _a prolific writer_.
> 
> 3\. profusely productive or fruitful (often followed by in or of): _a bequest prolific of litigations_.
> 
> 4\. characterized by abundant production: _a prolific year for tomatoes_.

* * *

 

Jack's first arrest as a constable was prolific in it's lessons.

He learnt the importance of proper timing when it came to avoiding the swing of a drunkard resisting arrest- too late and you were hit, but too early and they could adjust trajectory with alarming precision. To have discovered both on the same night was rather embarrassing. And painful.

As he watched them mock and manhandle the poor woman into the cells, he learnt that men he had respected were not always the virtuous upholders of the law that he had believed them to be.

He learnt that the well-timed supply of a bucket could save everyone, no matter which side of the bars they were on, from an unpleasant mess. He also learnt the importance of a spare set of shoes.

It was possible, he thought, that the cells at 2 am was the loneliest place in the world. He spoke to the woman for awhile, writing his report on the back of a spare board. She was funny and kind once the drink wore off, but the haunted look in her eyes never quite left entirely. He saw it, later, in the eyes of soldiers in the trenches and remembered her every time.

The most important lesson, however, came as he processed the paperwork for Elsie Tizzard's release the next morning.  
"You're a good boy, Jack. I wouldn't even mind if my Matthew became a copper if it was one like you," she said, shaking his hand firmly.  
At that moment he knew that nothing he had learnt at the academy was as important as treating people, no matter how belligerent or drunk or filthy, with dignity and respect. 

 


	11. 475. Tremulous

 

 

> #### tremulous
> 
> ˈtrɛmjʊləs/  
>  _adjective_
> 
> 1\. (of persons, the body, etc.) characterized by trembling, as from fear, nervousness, or weakness  
>  2\. timid; timorous; fearful.  
>  3\. (of things) vibratory, shaking, or quivering.  
>  4\. (of writing) done with a trembling hand.

 

* * *

 

Umpteen miles and six weeks on a boat. Months of friendship and hesitance and eventual pursuit before that. Crossing the threshold of her boudoir is where he hesitates.

She stops, looks at him. Her in the boudoir, him in the corridor, their joined hands spanning the space between the two.

"It's been a long time," he finally says, voice wavering. "I'm not entirely sure I know what I'm doing."

She smiles.

"We have time to learn. I'll show you."

  
\---  


Exhausted, they lie wrapped in silk sheets and each other. The only movement the occasional exploration of an unmapped body part, hands gliding across skin in an attempt at memorization.

Sated.

Contented.

This time it's her tremulous voice that breaks the silence.

"This. _Us_.... I'm not entirely sure I know what I'm doing."

It would be easy to misinterpret it as a display of hesitance, but he knows her. It is an admission of uncertainty, the newness of pursuing a relationship of sorts so at odds with her previous desires, but not hesitance.

He smiles.

"We have time to learn. I'll show you."


	12. 111. Deprecate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I quote T. S. Eliot. The Hollow Men was published in 1925, I'm sure Jack read it.
> 
> The prompt word doesn't actually appear because everywhere I could insert it seemed too obvious, but I think the feeling is there. It's not like there are rules against it any way.

> #### Deprecate
> 
> /ˈdɛp rɪˌkeɪt/  
>  verb
> 
> 1\. to express earnest disapproval of.  
>  2\. to urge reasons against; protest against (a scheme, purpose, etc.).  
>  3\. to depreciate; belittle.

* * *

 

Rosie proudly saw Senior Constable Jack Robinson of the Victoria Police Force off to war. He was Sergeant by late 1921 and Detective Inspector by mid-1925.

"It's almost unprecedented," she would say to other policemen's wives over their tea. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's Deputy Commissioner by the time he's forty."

Then she would beam at him if he was in the room, and for just a moment he would forget the demons who nipped at his heels if he dared to stop. But he was breathless and the demons relentless, and finally he stumbled. 

Rosie didn't understand. She tried. She really did, and it was a credit to her loving nature that she tried as long as she did. But she was under the belief that scars faded over time.

"Jack is still a DI," she would say to other policemen's wives over their tea. "There was an oppourtunity, but it was out of town, and with Mother's health the way it is...."

_Jack didn't bother to apply_ , was what she meant. 

Her words grew bitter instead of proud, as if Detective Inspector was no achievement at all. Perhaps it wasn't, to other men, but it was all he had.

"You have no ambition, Jack," she practically spat at him. She was waiting up for him in her favourite chair, a cup of tea in her hands. He hadn't seen the other policemen's wives in a long time. "I'm going to stay with Ruth until you regain your senses."  

He didn't see her for some time after that; if she needed to retrieve belongings she would slip into the house while he was at work, leaving a note by the kettle where he was sure to see. Then came the tentative phone conversations, where they would discuss their separate lives while avoiding the elephant in the room.

One night he came home as usual and found another note.

_I thought more of you, Jack. I'm sorry. I spoke with a lawyer today._

That was the way his marriage ended; not with a bang but a whimper.


	13. 350. Perquisite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, as a general rule I am not connecting these stories, HOWEVER, I did mention that there was a second, unincluded part of the Deprecate story that I cut for not fitting the theme. I did find that it quite nicely fit into another prompt though, so here it is. Less angst for poor Jack in this one.

> #### Perquisite
> 
> ˈpəːkwɪzɪt/  
>  _noun_
> 
> a benefit which one enjoys or is entitled to on account of one's job or position.

* * *

 

Jack did not, as a matter of self-preservation, make a habit of comparing his relationships with Rosie and Phryne. They were different people. He was a different person. Comparisons did nothing but frustrate him and taint otherwise happy memories. Standing in the foyer of Richmond Hall, he allowed himself to make an exception.

"Mother, this is Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson," Phryne announced, giving the title as much dignity as she could muster. He doubted that it would make a lick a difference to a member of the aristocracy.

"Detective Inspector?" Lady Fisher repeated, eying him critically. "That's aiming awfully high, don't you think?"

Jack did not expect to be greeted warmly, but the implication was too far.

"I am not _aiming_ \--"

Phryne laughed and held up her hand to silence him.

"She meant me, Jack. Mother's never quite forgotten the girl who went moon-eyed over the sight of a young constable in uniform. I'm afraid I've gone off them now though; I much prefer a man with a bit of authority, and Inspector rolls off the tongue so nicely."

She smiled at him, and he forgot that they were standing in front of her mother and half of the household staff long enough to kiss her. He doubted it was the sort of thing that bothered Miss Fisher. 

"Just inspector?" he couldn't help asking with a small smile when he pulled back.

Phryne was perceptive, and he had no doubt that she had pegged Rosie's more mercenary moments from the first day of their acquaintance.

"Just inspector," she asserted. "You'll soon learn, Jack, that one of the many, _many_ perquisites of our attachment is that I have quite enough title for the both of us."


	14. 222. Hypothetical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally, pardon the pun, winged the details. Charleville was the first required stop in the 1934 MacRobertson Air Race, so I used it and did some terribly vague math to get flight times.

> #### hypothetical
> 
> ˌhʌɪpəˈθɛtɪk(ə)l/  
>  _adjective_
> 
>  1. based on or serving as a hypothesis.  
>  supposed but not necessarily real or true.
> 
> _noun_
> 
> 1\. a hypothetical proposition or statement.
> 
>  

* * *

 

Jack sat in his office, trying resolutely to not to think of Phryne's invitation to go after her. It was a proposition that required no contemplation in acceptance, but quite a bit in preparation. He'd address it when his shift was over.

There was a knock at the door, and a constable stuck his head through.

"Telephone for you, sir."

He nodded his thanks and picked up the extension on his desk, trying to shake his contemplations and maintain a professional facade.

"Inspector Robinson speaking."

"Hello Jack!"

Her voice through the telephone was thin and far away, but it was still the most wonderful sound he had heard. If his resulting smile was entirely too large for it to be proper, he didn't care. There was nobody in the room to see.

"Miss Fisher," he replied, then lowered his voice. "How was the flight, Phryne? Did you make it to Charleville?"

It had been an ambitious goal, eight or nine hours of flying in total.

"Let me answer that with a purely hypothetical question of my own. What are the charges if I drop my father over the side of the plane?"

Jack laughed.

"Well, as a servant of the law I'd strongly discourage it. I'd have to arrest you--murder, naturally-- and think of the paperwork! But on a purely hypothetical level... well, I'd point out that you aren't that far from international waters, and my authority doesn't extend out there."

"I like the way you think," she replied. He could almost see the smirk she would give him, if they were standing in her parlour instead of hundreds of miles apart. "Second hypothetical then. If my father's ship had been delayed at the second port--due to, say, inclement weather or an unexpected repair--and it looked like we'd beat it to it's third, what would you say?"

"I'd say that it sounds a damn sight safer than flying to England with no preparation."

"I thought you might. You're so cautious."

"Well, you did ask my opinion."

"I did," she said, far too agreeably for it to be comfortable. "Last one then. If I were to hypothetically ask you to meet me in Darwin in two weeks--"

"Yes."


	15. 240. Indifferent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 1x01 drabble this time, addressing a minor quibble I had with Cocaine Blues given jack's later characterisation.

 

> #### indifferent
> 
> ɪnˈdɪf(ə)r(ə)nt/  
>  _adjective_
> 
> 1\. having no particular interest or sympathy; unconcerned.  
>  2\. neither good nor bad; mediocre.

* * *

 

Jack Robinson did not _dislike_ the crime-scene-invading Miss Fisher. Her presence had been a minor irritation at most, her careless manner no real threat to his investigation. Nor could he claim any great fondness for her, begrudging admiration for her role in George Fletcher's arrest aside. He was simply indifferent to her charms.

Which was precisely why he was currently sitting behind his desk and staring implacably at Albert Johnson. She was more than welcome to try her enchantment on other members of the constabulary, but he was not going to become her errand boy. 

The silent stand-off was interrupted by the sound of a ringing telephone, then Collins rushing into the room.

"Sir, it's Miss Williams on the telephone. She says Miss Fisher is in some kind of trouble."

The additional information provided by Miss Williams cast the situation in a different light and he moved quickly, trying to ignore the Rad Ragger's pointed looks in the process. 

As he mobilised his men, Jack castigated himself. There was a fine line between indifference and being derelict in his duties, and he hoped that Miss Fisher would not be the one to pay the price for that reminder. 


	16. 12. Amanuensis

> #### Amanuensis
> 
> /əˌmæn yuˈɛn sɪs/  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1\. a person employed to write what another dictates or to copy what has been written by another; secretary.

* * *

 

"Mr. Robinson is most fortunate," said Edward Hills, sliding one hand onto Phryne's thigh as soon as the door shut behind Jack. "To have so charming an amanuensis at his disposal. I myself am in need of an accomplished woman, if you are looking for other employment." 

Phryne removed his hand decisively, then stood.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Hills." 

She left the room and met Jack in the hall. He nodded back towards the office she had just escaped with a grin.

"He seemed... charming. Very good looking."

Bless him, trying so hard to give her options. 

"Not nearly as charming as he thinks he is," Phryne replied. "I'm not taking the case."

"Weren't you just complaining this morning that you were bored?"

"He was convinced I was your secretary! _Secretary_! My card was _right in front of him_ ," she huffed, then gave Jack a licentious grin. "So I'm afraid we'll just have to find some other way to pass the time."

He pulled her close, leaned forward to whisper into her ear. She trembled with anticipation; braced for that thrill his deep voice always gave her.

"Well, I do have some notes to type up...."


	17. 57. Catalyst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the second part of this first, because in my mind's eye there was something catalyst-like about it. I found I couldn't bear to cut it when the other half ended up being a fill unto itself.
> 
> With extra thanks to electriceell for providing a bit of chemistry terminology. She cannot be blamed for the more... questionable science.

> #### catalyst
> 
> ˈkat(ə)lɪst/  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1\. a substance that increases the rate of a chemical reaction without itself undergoing any permanent chemical change.  
>  2\. a person or thing that precipitates an event.

* * *

 

When it came to Phryne Fisher, the first thing you noticed was that she was a catalyst in even the strictest sense of the word. She caused change wherever she went, somehow immune to the forces exerted upon her; the same Phryne, regardless of money or status or the night's charming paramour.

Mac assumed that her Inspector Robinson was another chemical reaction waiting to happen; slower, perhaps, than most, but still waiting. After awhile, Mac began to wonder if she had it the wrong way around; that the seemingly unassuming policeman was the catalyst in her friend's own transformation, subtle but very much there. It dawned on her, far later than it should have, that neither was true. Their partnership was a synthesis reaction, two substances forming something more complex. Too complex, possibly, given the grief it seemed to cause them both. 

It was possible to reverse reactions, through time or other initiating forces, but the components were never the same; the actual yield never quite matched the theoretical yield, both reagents somehow leaving pieces of themselves in the other. As Mac watched Jack Robinson in her morgue, attention firmly on the case but still turning towards the door at the slightest sound as if he expected her to burst through, she cursed her chemistry education.

  
\------

He knocked on the door of her London flat, the address passed on to him by Mac in an effort to keep his arrival secret.

She answered the door herself, practically bouncing as she came into view. He was suddenly conscious that he might be interrupting other plans; it wasn't as if he expected he to be pining away in London while he chased her halfway around the world, after all. 

"Jack!"

She beamed at him, the full force of her vivacity hitting him at once.

"Good afternoon, Miss Fisher. I believe you--"

She reached up, grabbed his tie, and pulled him through the door. 


	18. 42. Bellwether

> #### Bellwether
> 
> /ˈbɛlˌwɛð ər/  
>  _noun_  
>  1\. a wether or other male sheep that leads the flock, usually bearing a bell.  
>  2\. a person or thing that assumes the leadership or forefront, as of a profession or industry  
>  3\. a person or thing that shows the existence or direction of a trend; index.  
>  4\. a person who leads a mob, mutiny, conspiracy, or the like; ringleader.

* * *

 

  
__

> _The Honourable Miss Phryne arrived at the Duke of Embury's birthday party dressed in a creation from an up-and-coming Parisian fashion house. The fashion bellwether has only recently returned from an extended stay in the Antipodes. Curiously, she was unaccompanied, a rare sight for the flirtatious Miss Fisher._

Bellwether. She liked that. And she looked absolutely stunning, even in black and white.

Phryne carefully clipped the article and accompanying picture from the newspaper, then scrawled a note in the margins: _Indeed, where was my escort?_ Then she folded it and placed it in an envelope. Debated whether or not to send her other recent foray into the society pages (that bloody spider), but decided against it; she only had the one copy in England, and she was rather attached to it. 

She had left Melbourne six weeks earlier, and had been in London for nearly two of them. She had not heard from Jack despite her invitation; telegraphs had been sent to Mac and to Wardlow, telling them of her safe arrival, so he undoubtedly knew where she was. She didn't expect him to actually _come_ , but a message would be nice. Perhaps she was just too impatient; a telegram was far too impersonal for a romantic overture (and if she could stop grinning like a school girl at those words, that would be wonderful), and he couldn't have sent a letter until he knew where she was staying. Still, there was a growing sense of dread. She addressed the envelope and placed it in the pile to be posted that afternoon. 

This had to be Jack's step. But it certainly wouldn't hurt if the ram gave the bell a shake now and again.

  


	19. 369. Predicament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things- someone else also had this prompt as well, but I lost my master list with usernames. Whoever it was, I'd love to see your take as well!
> 
> Secondly, this can probably be read in conjunction with the previous two chapters, Catalyst and Bellwether. I might eventually move the chapter order around so it reads more smoothly. They all stand by themselves as well though, or at least I hope so.

> #### Predicament
> 
> /prɪˈdɪk ə mənt /  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1\. an unpleasantly difficult, perplexing, or dangerous situation.  
>  2\. a class or category of logical or philosophical predication.  
>  3\. Archaic. a particular state, condition, or situation.

* * *

 

Mac strode into City South, barely stopping to acknowledge the poor constable at the desk before entering Jack Robinson's office. The man in question was going over paperwork, but looked up when she closed the door.

"You're off duty?" she confirmed.

He nodded. She retrieved his secret bottle of whiskey and two tumblers, then sprawled into one of the empty chairs before pouring them both a drink. 

"Drink."

They both gulped down the shot, and Mac poured them another.

"Did you try and stop her?" Mac asked.

He looked horrified.

"No. You?"

"Yes."

"It went well then?"

There was a ghost of a smile on his face as he said it. She really did like the man.

"Of course."

"Ahh, that must be why she's safe at home in bed."

"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, Jack."

"And neither go so many places as our demons."

Mac raised her glass in a silent toast of understanding. They sipped their drinks this time, contemplatively. When his was done he placed it carefully on the desk, spread his hands across the smooth wooden surface. He looked exhausted.

"Why are you here, Mac?"

The doctor could never remember him calling her that before; they were not friends as such. Or perhaps they were now. This was the sort of conversation you could only have with a friend.

"What are you going to do?"

The man sighed.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Find some way to go after her, probably."

That was a surprise; she would have thought he understood Phryne more than that. Her friend enjoyed the chase but she didn't like to get caught, not even by those she cared for most.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Because she asked me too." 

Not caught then; met.

"Most of my best and worst adventures started with the very premise," said Mac. "But I've never regretted them."

"I believe Miss Fisher makes it very difficult to regret anything, no matter the cost."

"I don't envy you your predicament," Mac said, rising from the chair. She took a piece of paper from her pocket and laid it on the desk; Phryne's address in London. She gave the inspector a small smile. "But perhaps it's much simpler than it seems from the outside."


	20. 100. Debacle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosie/Phryne friendship. It would be glorious.
> 
> (Also editing to add that I only have one prompt word left. If you're interested in dropping me a number, feel free. Called numbers can be found [here](http://firesign23.tumblr.com/post/129656518192/500-words-game-master-post))

 

> #### Debacle
> 
> /deɪˈbɑ kəl, -ˈbæk əl, də-/  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1\. a general breakup or dispersion; sudden downfall or rout  
>  2\. a complete collapse or failure.  
>  3\. a breaking up of ice in a river.  
>  4\. a violent rush of waters or ice.

* * *

 

Joan had always been the practical sister, the resilient sister, the brave sister. The one who would fight back, stand toe to toe with anybody if she believed them to be wrong. And three weeks after her father and fiance were arrested, Rosie Sanderson had begun to resent her for it.

"Come on, Rosie dear," she said, rustling the bed covers. "You cannot hide away forever."

Rosie wondered if there was a socially acceptable amount of time to withdraw from society when it turned out that the two men you loved best in the world were opportunistic criminals who had built wealth and prestige off the backs of innocent girls. Somehow she couldn't see the etiquette books addressing _that_.

"Not forever," said Rosie, squeezing her eyes tightly and pretending that morning hadn't come. "Just today."

Joan sat on the bed, stroked Rosie's hair.

"Sweetheart, this debacle will not get any easier until you face it."

Tears stung Rosie's eyes. A _debacle_ ; what an odd word for the complete collapse of her life, with its crisp and almost cheery syllables. It was all too much.

"There's a luncheon today," said Joan. "Small enough to not overwhelm, big enough that you will have some anonymity. Come, please."

Rosie shook her head.

"I just can't face it."

\---

She ended up going, of course. She had never been able to withstand Joan, with her charm and her strength and her sheer bloody-mindedness. Joan had been able to keep her marriage together after the war, to have happy and healthy children, to find her own comfortable niche in society. And that was how Rosie found herself in the home of Mrs. Prudence Stanley, aunt to That Woman.

"I didn't realise," Joan whispered. "I'm sorry."

Rosie tilted her head up and smiled bravely; she hadn't Joan's strength, but she had some of her own meagre pride left and it refused to allow her much-desired retreat.

That Woman saw them from across the room, excused herself from her current conversation to greet them. Half the room was watching; Rosie could feel their eyes burning on her, waiting for her very public humiliation.

"Rosie!" She said, smiling. Rosie braced, waiting for the strike; _She_ embraced Rosie instead. "I'm so pleased you could make it!"

Then _She_ kissed both of Rosie's cheeks and introduced herself to Joan.

"Miss Phryne Fisher," _She_ said. "You must be Rosie's sister; the resemblance is uncanny."

Small talk was made, polite and superficial. When people began to turn away, disappointed by the lack of show, _She_ leaned in close to Rosie.

"Chin up, darling," _She_ whispered. "They'll find something else to gossip about soon enough. And until then, you must come for tea."

Rosie almost recoiled at the idea, but regained her composure immediately.

"That is very kind, but I must decline. I am quite busy at the moment."

 "It needn't be long, if you don't wish it to be. But between my aunt and I receiving you, the easily led will come to their senses all the quicker."

There was a pragmatic set to Miss Fisher's shoulders, so at odds with the image she projected in society.

"Why?" Rosie asked. She knew, or at least suspected; a favour to Jack, or perhaps an attempt to ingratiate herself.

"I don't believe in judging a woman on her morals," Miss Fisher said. "I certainly don't believe in judging a woman of the morals of the men who happen to be in their lives. And because on that horrible night you thought about those girls before yourself, and that is far rarer a reaction than you would think."

For the first time in weeks, Rosie could almost see life After That Night.

"Thank you," she said, quietly. "I would love to come for tea."

 


	21. 124. Discomfiture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a cheat, as this was not a prompt but a semi-randomly selected word of my own choosing. Clear follow-up to the previous chapter, one of several I suspect. Sometimes ideas take on a life of their own.

 

> #### Discomfiture
> 
> /dɪsˈkʌm fɪ tʃər/  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1\. the state of being disconcerted; confusion; embarrassment.  
>  2\. frustration of hopes or plans.  
>  3.Archaic. defeat in battle; rout.

 

* * *

 Jack let himself into Wardlow intending to retrieve some care files he had brought over the night before and forgotten that morning.

"Phryne, love--" he began, before rounding the corner in the parlour.

He froze.

There was Phryne, sitting on the chaise lounge with a smirk on her face.

There was Mrs. Collins, blushing slightly and fiddling with her embroidery.

And there was Rosie, tea cup half-raised to her mouth.

"Close your mouth, darling, you'll catch flies," Phryne said primly. "Mr. Butler left the papers by the door."

"What...?"

"I did mention I had a friend over this morning. Then we're going to the new exhibit at Emily's gallery."

"You failed to mention that the friend was my wife."

"Former wife, Jack. And I try not to hold it against her."

Rosie laughed, the genuine, open laugh he remembered from the early days of their marriage. Phryne winked at him. Even Mrs. Collins seemed to find amusement with his discomfiture.

"Right," said Jack, realising that there was absolutely no explanation in the world that would allow him to grasp the scene before him. "Have fun, and try not to stumble across any bodies. I cannot deal with three of you."


	22. 97. Cryptic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this was my very last prompt. If you're interested in dropping me a number, feel free. Already called numbers can be found [here](http://firesign23.tumblr.com/post/129656518192/500-words-game-master-post).

> #### Cryptic
> 
> /ˈkrɪp tɪk/  
>  _adjective_
> 
> 1\. mysterious in meaning; puzzling; ambiguous  
>  2\. abrupt; terse; short  
>  3\. secret; occult  
>  4\. involving or using cipher, code, etc.  
>  5\. Zoology. fitted for concealing; serving to camouflage.
> 
> _noun_
> 
> 6\. a cryptogram, especially one designed as a puzzle.
> 
>  

* * *

 

Tobias Butler laid out two copies of the newspaper--one each for Mr. and Mrs. Collins, he had already read it--and then returned to the task of cooking breakfast. The newlyweds were staying at Wardlow while Miss Fisher was abroad, and the morning routine had quickly found it's rhythm. 

Mr. Butler would rise first, laying out the newspapers and beginning to cook; then Dorothy would come down to make tea; Hugh would come in last, already dressed for work. The newlyweds would each read their own copy of the newspaper, a concession that came after the first morning when they had argued over who should have it first; Hugh felt it was his right, both because he would leave for work shortly after and because it might contain important information for the day ahead. Dorothy was of the opinion that she was up first, and Hugh could make the tea if he was that picky. Two copies of the paper had given rise to something else though, both of them determined to complete the day's cryptic crossword before the other. 

Tobias Butler was, quite frankly, sick of the competition and the accompanying gloating from the day's winner. It was time to take matters into his own hands. He had called in a small favour from a friend at the Argus, and today's cryptic would be completely unsolvable by either party without co-operation.

"Good morning, Mr. Butler," said Dorothy as she came into the kitchen. She filled the kettle and set it on the stovetop.

"You know, Dorothy," Tobias said, allowing a tiny conspiratorial twinkle into his eye. "I rather think it is."

 


	23. 238. Incognito

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed fluff. NaNo is killing me on the angst front; there is another chapter of Marked coming soonish, but all attempts to finish have been tainted by the NaNo version of Phrack, and you don't want that inserting itself into our sweet London!Phrack.
> 
> The level of saccharine in this off the charts and PhrackBaby-centric, so if that's not your cup of tea consider yourself duly warned and/or skip it. Usual disclaimer, my version of PhrackBaby (who has only shown up once before and IS NEVER GETTING FULL FIC TREATMENT SO GO AWAY ANTHONY) shares a name and several characteristics with a PhrackBaby from gaslightgallows. It's purely amusing coincidence (except the damn dog, who has not yet appeared), but he refused all my attempts at renaming him. 
> 
> Also, the prompt word deserves it's own stand-alone fic treatment at one point which I will probably do. Because it's _incognito_.

> #### Incognito
> 
> /ˌɪn kɒgˈni toʊ/
> 
> _adjective_  
>  1\. having one's identity concealed, as under an assumed name, especially to avoid notice or formal attentions.  
>  _adverb_  
>  2\. with the real identity concealed:  
>  _noun_  
>  3\. a person who is incognito.  
>  4\. the state of being incognito.  
>  5\. the disguise or character assumed by an incognito.

* * *

 

Jack entered Wardlow and placed his hat on the hook. It was a rare day when he had enough time to come home for lunch, and even rarer that he expected the rest of the family to actually be home. 

He found his wife sitting on the chaise with a cup of tea and a book. Entirely unremarkable, only she was wearing one of his suit jackets and had slicked her hair back with what he could only presume was some of his pomade.

“Phryne?” he asked.

She looked up from the book and gave him a puzzled look.

“Who's Phryne?” she said in a gruff voice. “I'm Freddie the Fish.” Then she smiled and winked before saying in a stage whisper. “Shh, Jack. I'm incognito.”

He was saved from asking by the familiar stomping of feet from behind him.

“That's it, Freddie!” Anthony called out, rounding the corner. He stopped dead at the sight of his father, tilting his head slightly. “Hello daddy! I'm arresting Freddie the Fish.”

“Are you now?” Jack asked, barely keeping the amusement from his voice. It was a very serious game when you were five. “On what charges?”

“Eating cake for breakfast!”

“The very worst crime!” Jack exclaimed, going along with the game. “Except for leaving no cake for anyone else.”

The boy nodded in solemn agreement.

“C'mon, Freddie,” said Anthony gruffly. “You and me gotta talk at the station.”

Phryne—or rather, Freddie—uncurled from her seat gracefully and laid her book on the table.

“Ain't no copper gonna arrest me!” she protested, sticking out her hand for him to take.

The boy grabbed it and led her out of the parlour and towards the kitchen. As she passed Jack, she winked again.

“Best sort of game,” she said. “The inspector does his detecting while I run my evil operation in peace, and he arrests me just in time for lunch.”

“Ahh,” said Jack. “Diabolical.”

He followed his wife and son towards the kitchen, where Mr. Butler was putting the finishing touches on some sandwiches and fresh fruit. A pot of tea was already on the side.

“Hello, Sir,” he said. “I thought you might be stopping by. I've made enough.”

In Jack's opinion, the presence of Mr. Butler was by far the best part of marriage. He thanked the man and sat at the kitchen table.

“Are you home now, daddy?” Anthony asked, mouth full of sandwich.

“'Fraid not, Ant. I have to work this afternoon.”

Anthony nodded again. 

“Me too,” the boy said with an air of resignation. “Paperwork.”

Phryne snorted and shot Jack an _I-told-you-so_ sort of look; she was always saying his complaints were parroted back. Jack ignored her, instead leaning in to whisper into Anthony's ear.

“I'll tell you a secret. I told your mother a long time ago that it's too much trouble to arrest her. I'd cut Freddie the Fish loose, just this once. Commissioner's orders.”

“Yes sir!” said Anthony, finishing his lunch in record time. 

Then he hopped down from the table, gave his father a hug, and raced off to play again.

“You're his hero, Jack,” said Phryne, watching him go. 

“Jealous, Miss Fisher?”

“No,” she said, her voice slightly wistful.“It just surprises me sometimes, the idea that a parent can be an idol.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“He looks up to you too, you know,” he said. Anthony thought the sun rose and set on his Mims. “Even if your undercover game needs some serious improvement.”

Phryne laughed. 

“Am I not a convincing mobster then?”

“Definitely not,” he replied. “You'd probably have more success playing something a little closer to type. I hear Archie Jones is in need of a dance partner this weekend.”

“The case you're working on?” she asked. 

Jack nodded. It was his case rather than one of theirs, and had him out of the house at all hours for weeks. 

“Well then Jack, tell Archie I accept,” she said. She shot him a wicked grin. “And I'll try not to completely embarrass him.”

“Oh, I don't think you would do that, Miss Fisher. As I recall, you are an excellent dancer.”

“Jack, darling,” she purred, placing one hand on his chest. “You haven't seen what I'm going to wear.”


	24. 24. Antithesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A follow-up to Debacle, when Phryne invites Rosie for tea.

  

> #### Antithesis
> 
> /ænˈtɪθ ə sɪs/
> 
> _noun_  
>  1\. opposition; contrast:  
>  2\. the direct opposite (usually followed by of or to):  
>  3\. Rhetoric: the placing of a sentence or one of its parts against another to which it is opposed to form a balanced contrast of ideas, as in “Give me liberty or give me death.”.  
>  4\. Philosophy, See under Hegelian dialectic.

* * *

 

When Jack returned from the war, Rosie Robinson worried about him; he had survived with no real injuries, returned safe and whole to their life. But the stranger in her bed was the antithesis to her ambitious, open sweetheart who had read her Shakespeare and kissed her like she was the only thing in the world.

  
\---

When rumours first reached Rosie Robinson about her estranged husband's connections to the honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, she dismissed them as shameless gossip. The scandalous socialite from the newspapers was the antithesis to her husband's nature. An occasional professional interest, that was all it was.

  
\---

When she asked Jack for a divorce, Rosie Robinson (nee Sanderson, soon to be Fletcher) tried not to feel life a failure. She had _tried_. Admitting defeat was the very antithesis of her once-held starry-eyed views on commitment, But she also wasn't going to live like that any more.

  
\---

Rosie Sanderson (soon to be Fletcher) prided herself on maintaining dignity and good manners under even the most difficult of circumstances. As she turned to Jack--dear Jack, who had just exonerated her father in a murder--she could not help but feel that her words were antithetical to her convictions. But it felt good to voice them, to prove that she was fine too. That it did not hurt.

"You know, I didn't get a chance to tell you amidst all the fuss. Sidney and I are engaged. It's very different the second time around."

  
\---

As a child, Rosie Sanderson (never to be Fletcher; it was funny what thoughts struck during a crisis) had believed her father to be a pillar of honesty and integrity. The antithesis of everything he actually was, when the truth was laid bare, But Jack was Jack--the stalwart figure who was what her father had pretended to be. Dear Jack, who she needed even when she hadn't seen it.

  
\---

Sitting in the parlour of the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, with its vivid colours and modern decor, Rosie Sanderson discovered that Jack's friend (for they _were_ friends) was the antithesis of her assumptions. She was charming and kind and vivacious and supportive.

"I'm glad you came," she said, offering Rosie a slice of cake.

The spoke for some time; polite chatter at first, but they soon found common ground in their interest in art. By the time the butler (called Mr. Butler! There was something so whimsical about it that tickled Rosie's less practical side, long buried but not forgotten) interrupted to tell Miss Fisher that there was a telephone call, she decided that she quite liked the woman.

And when she overheard the telephone conversation (unintentionally; her curiosity did not allow her that much liberty), her fondness was secured.

 "Sorry Jack, there's just no way I can make it to the station. If you want me to sign off on the statements you can come around for dinner after work. I'll tell Mr. Butler to make extra, shall I?"

It was a masterful handling. She wasn't sure if they were lovers; she had always assumed so given Miss Fisher's reputation and Jack's obvious attraction, but there had been something in the the way she spoke that made Rosie doubt. It hardly mattered, in the end; sometimes what a person needed was not what they expected.


	25. 313. Nuance

> #### Nuance
> 
> /ˈnjuːɑːns/  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1\. a subtle difference or distinction in expression, meaning, response, etc.  
>  2\. a very slight difference or variation in color or tone.

* * *

The room was quiet in the aftermath of their first time, both of them lost in the immensity of what had transpired. Jack broke the silence first.

"That was..."

"The best I ever had?"

"Oh please," Jack laughed. "It wasn't even the best _I've_ ever had."

"No," she conceded. She reached up to cup his cheek, enjoying the brush of stubble against her hand. "But it was with _you_."

"Mmm," he agreed, giving her a slow smile. "The company was excellent."

They were silent again, basking in the warmth of unexpected happiness.

"You'll tell me, won't you?" he asked eventually. "How to..."

"Improve?"

He nodded.

"Of course, darling," she said, propping herself up on her arm so she could see his face. "I'm rather looking forward to it. By the time I'm through with you, you'll know ever nuance of my body and yours."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

"Of what?" she asked.

It sounded like a frankly _excellent_ plan to her.

"When you're through with me."

A misstep, easily rectified.

"You're a long-term project," she said, uninterested in making promises she may or may not keep. 

"That bad?" he asked ruefully.

"Absolutely not," she said, leaning in to kiss him. "I don't make foolish investments. But there's a lot to learn and new developments all the time. Believe me, the education of Jack Robinson could take _years_." 

 


	26. 238. Incognito (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I kept incognito after the first fill with the intention of giving it full fic treatment. Instead it got this, a bridge between Unnatural Habits and the date of Death Defying Feats....

 

> #### Incognito
> 
> /ˌɪn kɒgˈni toʊ/
> 
> _adjective_  
>  1\. having one's identity concealed, as under an assumed name, especially to avoid notice or formal attentions.  
>  _adverb_  
>  2\. with the real identity concealed:  
>  _noun_  
>  3\. a person who is incognito.  
>  4\. the state of being incognito.  
>  5\. the disguise or character assumed by an incognito.

* * *

"Is this seat taken?" Phryne asked.

The man looked at her; his face registered surprise then smoothed itself so quickly she doubted an outside observer would have noticed. 

"No," he said, and she sat delicately beside him.

It really was the best view of the entire room; brushing against Jack was merely a pleasant benefit. 

"I'm Fern," she said, just loudly enough for an eavesdropper to hear. Best to make it clear she was incognito early on. 

"Archie."

So he was undercover as well. How serendipitous. 

"Nice to meet you, Archie."

"So what's a nice lady doing here alone?"

"My date stood me up," she said, which was a damn good excuse to talk to people. 

"Foolish."

She smirked. "I thought so. I suppose I'll just have to find entertainment elsewhere."

"Drink?" he asked.

She presumed he'd seen something of interest across the room.

"Would love one." 

He came back a moment later; she knew him well enough to recognise the look of a dead end. He sat back down, passing her a glass of neat whiskey. He had seltzer for himself.

They talked for awhile under the pretense of strangers making a connection. She was surprised to realise how _easy_ it was to converse under those circumstances; how she knew him so well she could identify when he told her something true versus something that was strictly Archie. More than once he made her laugh loudly then smiled at the result; Archie was far more open with his smiles than the Jack she knew. 

After several hours they both realised their night was a wash.

"Walk you home?" Archie offered, and Fern nodded and took his offered arm. 

They caught the tram, then walked the rest of the way to a small bungalow. Jack gave her a look of surprise when she pulled out keys.  

"It's Cec and Alice's place," she explained quietly. "They're on their honeymoon. I'll call Bert to pick me up once the coast is clear."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" he asked, moving a little closer. 

The dim light from inside the house highlighted his face; he really was a handsome man. 

"Suspected jewel thief. If you're good, I'll turn him into City South. Are _you_ going to tell me what's going on?"

"Suspected jewel thief. If you beat me to it, save me the paperwork and turn him in anywhere else."

She laughed, then spotted her suspect lurking behind a bush. How terribly predictable. She slipped her hand onto Jack's waist.

"Well, Archie, it looks like we have company. You might need to kiss me for verisimilitude."

He kissed her, soft and chaste and very much like a man kissing his new sweetheart good night at her door. It sent a shiver straight through her. 

"Come to dinner," she whispered against his lips.

She'd been thinking about it for weeks, how to break out of their holding pattern. Dinner seemed a good place to start.

"Pardon?"

"Come to dinner, Jack," she said again, pulling back to meet his eyes. "Next Friday. Dot will be out, Jane's boarding at school this term. It will just be us."

He was searching her face, as if doubting he heard what he thought he'd heard. Her tiny smile seemed to convince him eventually, because he tilted his head and gave her a half-smile of his own. 

"Just dinner?"

"We'll see how it goes."

His half-smile became a full grin. 

"I like the sound of that."

"So do I," she replied, ignoring the sudden flutter of nerves. It was _Jack_. Somebody could--and probably would--drop dead over their main course and she'd still enjoy herself. "Seven o'clock. Next Friday. Not a minute later."


	27. 2. Accoutrements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble drabble this time. Funny in that I spent a good half an hour looking up uniform and gear lists for WWI Australian soldiers and used exactly none of what I gleamed due to the 100 word limit.

> #### Accoutrement
> 
> /əˈku tər mənt, -trə-/  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1\. personal clothing, accessories, etc.  
>  2\. the equipment, excluding weapons and clothing, of a soldier.

* * *

Upon enlistment, the uniform was provided from the undergarments up: vest, shirt, tunic, greatcoat. Drawers and breeches and puttees and socks and boots. That bloody hat that had made Rosie laugh so hard tears came to her eyes. ("Jack, darling," she'd said. "Stick to fedoras.")  Rifle, ammunition, bayonet, all somehow heavier after a battle than before. His helmet and gas mask. Mess tin and shaving kit and webbing, and all the other accoutrements assigned.  
  
By the end of the war, none of them weighed as heavily as the faded picture of his wife he kept in his right breast pocket. 

 


	28. 400. Quiescent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 is messing with my formatting, but I think I sorted it. Bit of fluff for the season, though not seasonal.

 

> #### Quiescent
> 
> /kwiˈɛs ənt,  
>  _adjective_
> 
> 1\. being at rest; quiet; still; inactive or motionless:

 

Flying does not lend itself to bouts of self-reflection, which suits Phryne just fine. There's so much to think of in the air; routes and fuel and locations to land in the long term, the mechanics of wind and gravity and speed more pressingly. It demands all of her attention, knowing that a false sense of security could result in things going wrong quickly. Then when she lands she must find supplies and food and a place to sleep, and keeps her father close in the short term to ensure he is far away in the long.  

At night she generally collapses into bed, too exhausted to even dream. When she wakes, another long day stretching before her, she questions--just briefly--whether she can withstand the weeks of emotional toil.

But in those quiet, quiescent moments--all the more treasured for their rarity--she thinks of home. Of night caps and unrealised promises and a detective-inspector she can still feel on her lips when she traces them. And she is steadied.


	29. 117. Diatribe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twofer today. This one far less fluffy.

> #### Diatribe
> 
> /ˈdaɪ əˌtraɪb/  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1\. a bitter, sharply abusive denunciation, attack, or criticism

 

He did not _expect_ her to change; he had told her so once, when the agony of loss had run deep enough to lower his defenses. But he could only change so much himself; he could improve but not alter his fundamental nature. Their stances might be too far apart to ever reach a satisfactory middle ground--he had, in truth, resigned himself to the fact--but he thought it had been mutually _understood_ at least. He had assumed that her invitation to dinner had been a first tentative step on the improbable journey. Instead he had been discarded in favour of an unexpected guest. He wasn't even surprised, and that was what hurt the most.

He was determined to be fair--she did not owe him anything, though he thought that she had at least valued their friendship enough to grant common courtesy--but perfectly clear. Incompatible was one matter, but complete disregard was another entirely.

No, he would go to the rescheduled dinner and raise his points, calmly and clearly. They were not complicated, really, even if they proved impossible: he would not be one of a parade, there one day and discarded when convenient, a fleeting entertainment; he was not as liberally minded as he would like, but perhaps more liberally minded than she gave him credit for; and that he would rather return to their friendship than ruin it if their differences were insurmountable to her. Reasonable points, carefully considered from every angle over the course of the day.

He rang the bell, the door swinging open to reveal Mr. Butler almost instantly. The man was a marvel.  


"Evening, sir," Phryne's butler said, stepping aside to allow him in and taking his hat and coat. "If you wouldn't mind waiting in the parlour, Miss Fisher's been slightly detained."

Of course she had.


	30. 305. Mundane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, this is a bit of a stretch word-wise. It sprung from a joke about Gary-the-Postie and Hugh's s3 postcards about fish. You can blame the Phrack Slack writers, because I disavow all knowledge.

#### Mundane

/mʌnˈdeɪn, ˈmʌn deɪn/  
_adjective_  
1\. common; ordinary; banal; unimaginative.  
2\. of or relating to this world or earth as contrasted with heaven; worldly; earthly:  
mundane affairs.  
3\. of or relating to the world, universe, or earth.

 

* * *

 

Roy did not know many people on his post rounds--a postman's life was generally mundane--but Dorothy Williams who lived in the big house on The Esplanade was one of them. She was a sweet girl who always baked him biscuits or brought him a cold glass of lemonade on hot days, and she reminded him of his own Matilda who had moved to Sydney to be nearer her husband's family. Yes, Roy had a soft spot for the girl.

He had seen her beau a handful of times; fumbling and generally good-natured, and clearly besotted with his Dottie. The day Roy saw him kiss her cheek goodbye, the postman had smiled for the rest of the day. The day she met Roy at the postbox with a huge smile and an engagement ring, his entire week was made; the extra biscuits in his bag didn't hurt matters.

It was an uncharacteristically chilly day in mid-August when he saw her waiting at the postbox, scarf around her neck as she rubbed her shoulders. She must have been waiting for ages.

"Anything for me?" she asked him.

"Just a postcard," replied Roy, and she practically snatched it from his hand.

Her eyes scanned it quickly and her face fell.

"Thank you," she said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes.

After that, he checked the post every day before setting off, so he could greet her with a nod or a shake of his head to her unasked question. Postcards came in dribbles and spurts; nearly a week before the second, then three in rapid succession after. It was strictly forbidden to read the mail entrusted to his care, but he found himself doing it nonetheless. The postcards were all from Hugh--her fiance, he remembered--and almost exclusively about fish. 

She didn't expand on the matter, but he could see the changes in her face--hopeful at first, then increasingly despondent and irritable. With mere days left in the month, the even-tempered, tolerant Dorothy Williams was ready to explode.

"Hugh Collins," she muttered angrily as she read the most recent arrival, seemingly unaware of Roy's presence. "You are the most obstinate, pig-headed..."

Roy coughed, and she jumped.

"Sorry, Dorothy," he said. "I won't presume I know why your dearly beloved is sending you postcards instead of being here, but if you'll take a bit of advice from an old man?"Her head cocked as she looked up at him."I think the important point is that he is writing."

"Funny," she murmured, absent-mindedly caressing the postcard with sudden tenderness. "That's just what Mr. Butler said."

A few days later, Miss Williams didn't meet him at the postbox. He thought he'd seen her constable coming around the corner during yesterday's rounds, a memory that filled him with no small satisfaction. He whistled for the rest of his round.


	31. 13. Ambivalent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this assumes that City South has a morgue (implied in 2x01) or at least that there are multiple morgues. Also attempting to reconcile Mac's new job. Decided that City South cases go to a morgue at a teaching hospital attached to the university, and might therefore fall under the purview of one of their employees. Or something. 
> 
> Also inspired by Mac's "I promise to withstand [Phryne's] inveigling for as long as humanly possible" from the first episode of series three. Cracks me up every time.

> #### Ambivalent
> 
> /æmˈbɪv ə lənt/  
>  adjective
> 
> 1\. Having mixed feelings about someone or something; being unable to choose between two (usually opposing) courses of action  
>  2\. Psychology. of or relating to the coexistence within an individual of positive and negative feelings toward the same person, object, or action, simultaneously drawing him or her in opposite directions.

* * *

 

When Jack heard that the coroner was retiring, he groaned. Retirement meant replacement, which meant that his opinion would be sought, and sought opinions over little details was one of the many reasons he was determined to never rise above his current rank. When he heard that there was only one applicant, he nearly cheered.

The relief lasted for approximately five seconds after he walked into the morgue with the deputy commissioner.

"Inspector Robinson, this is Doctor Elizabeth MacMillan. Doctor MacMillan, this is Inspector Robinson."

Phryne's oldest and closest friend gave them a suspiciously friendly grin.

"Oh yes, Jack and I go way back!" Doctor MacMillan said. "How are you, inspector?"

"Well, thank you," Jack said stiffly. He _liked_ the good doctor, but he had a sudden vision of exactly how complicated his life was about to become. "And yourself?"

"Oh," said Mac in a dry voice. "So _very_ excited to be here."

The deputy commissioner gave them both a look, then stared intently at his watch. "Well, if that's all settled I've got another meeting. I'll see you around." 

He was gone before either one of them could actually reply. 

"So," said Jack. "I'm surprised--I mean, not surprised, but--"

"I know exactly what you mean," said Mac. "This was not by choice."

"I'm off the clock. It's traditional to grab a pint with the new man, or woman in this case...?"

"Excellent idea, inspector. Let me grab my coat."

The doctor picked up her coat and hat, and they walked a block to a pub that was popular with off-duty coppers. They ordered a pint each and sat at a table.

"How _did_ you come to your new position?" asked Jack after a minute of uncomfortable silence.

"Nobody else was mad enough," Mac said. "When the hospital realised that I was vaguely competent, they cut a deal: I perform coroner duties and they fund some much needed women's services."

Admirable. Jack raised his glass.

"To workplace politics," he toasted.

"Touche," she replied. "And there are worse men to work with, at least."

"That comes dangerously close to a compliment, Doctor." 

"I wouldn't let it get to your head." 

"Oh, no danger of that."

"I do believe Phryne will be pleased, at least; I can almost smell her machinations behind this."

"Ah, yes," Jack said diplomatically. "I have no doubt that Miss Fisher will appreciate an inside track."

Mac rolled her eyes. "I'll never get a moment's peace."

A sudden thought struck him, and Jack felt a vaguely conspiratorial grin cross his face.

"Her _asking_ for information does not necessitate _providing_ it," he said.

Mac gave him an appraising look from behind her glass, then smiled back. 

"You know, I'm suddenly feeling much more invested in this job."


	32. 92. Covetous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not completely happy with this one, but I promised it if SOMEONE met a deadline.

> #### Covetous
> 
> /ˈkʌvɪtəs/  
>  _adjective_
> 
> having or showing a great desire to possess something belonging to someone else.

 

 

* * *

Phryne Fisher did not believe in being jealous. She generally found that if someone was doing something worth being jealous over, it was better to simply join them in the fun. She'd met some of her dearest friends that way. Which was why her sudden surge of envy the night she saw Jack comforting Rosie had thrown her so off balance. It was not fun she coveted, and she wasn't used to coveting anything else. Still, he had come later that night and the relief she'd felt had been undeniable. It was time to hurry along their waltz.

She issued a dinner invitation. He'd accepted. Then her father had shown up and ruined things, again. But it had made Jack's position painfully, drunkenly clear and made her question what she had even been thinking. She was not inclined to monogamy. Especially not for a man who was so stuck up his own arse that he believed she'd dance to the tune of Lyle Compton, regardless of their history. No, their waltz would stay on the dance floor, on her terms. The jealousy that had started this had been a fleeting thought she'd given too much weight to. Which lasted for a couple of days and the discovery of Concetta Strano. She was not jealous of Concetta. Absolutely not. Well, not really. She was, she could admit to herself, jealous that Jack had clearly kept the existence of a beautiful, warm woman in his life a secret. That she was not the only one who had been providing her inspector with nourishment. But she was not jealous of Concetta. 

Well, Strano's was closed and that was that. They'd make do, and the specifics of what that would entail were secondary concerns. She'd almost forgotten her uncharacteristic covetousness when Angela bloody Lombard, tennis player and man-eater, made her move. Jack wouldn't fall for it; Angela clearly didn't know the first thing about him if she thought such blatancy would persuade him. But then she'd called him Jack and implied that he'd undressed her, and the green-eyed monster had raised its head again.

"It's so much better when he does it with his teeth," Phryne had replied with a near sneer. If Angela was going to behave like an animal, Phryne would mark her territory. It wasn't terribly becoming and was hideously unsubtle, but it made her point. Then Jack had made it abundantly clear where his loyalties were--as if she'd had any doubt--and it had been more comfort than she cared to admit.

He'd come after her, all the way to London with no promises made, and that should have been enough. Except she found herself at a party, Jack halfway across the room in deep conversation with Felicity Boswell, and Phryne was contemplating how much wine it would take to ruin the couture dress Flick had been bragging about for weeks. Another time she would have gone over, inserted herself into the conversation, and let the best flirt win. (She'd win, every time. It wouldn't even be a competition, not with Jack.) But that was the problem; she had no doubt that Jack would choose her every time and she'd never offered the same assurances. And it had never mattered to her before--even in longer term arrangements there had been no expectation of exclusivity--but it mattered to Jack. Well, perhaps it was time to make it clear.

She crossed the room, wrapped her arm around his, and pulled herself in against his side.

"Hello, Jack darling," she said, pleased to feel his hand snake around her waist without hesitation; she had worried that public displays would be too much for his old-fashioned sensibilities. "Has Felicity been keeping you warm for me?"

"Miss Boswell was just asking me about our work," he said.

Phryne glared at Felicity, aware that her old friend had never had an interest in police work before. What a stunning coincidence, developing an interest at the very instant an attractive policeman arrived on the scene.

  "Is that so?" she asked archly.

"Oh yes," gushed her friend. "Phryne darling, it's all quite fascinating, isn't it? And so exciting! Murderers and jewel thieves and--"

"It's a little more serious than that," Phryne said coldly. "Now come along Jack, I have some other people you absolutely must meet. Excuse us, Flick."

Jack followed her willingly, but stopped once they were out of earshot of Felicity. He pulled her close, his hand on the small of her back warm and commanding. She didn't mind; he'd never steer her somewhere she didn't wish to go. 

"Was that a hint of jealousy I heard, Miss Fisher?"  His voice was low and quiet and amused, and his knowing smirk made her heart beat erratically.

"Oh, yes," she purred, brushing a kiss against his cheek then leaning to whisper into his ear. "I've waited long enough to have you, Jack Robinson, and I have no intention of sharing."


	33. 10. Allegory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Phrack Kid fill today, I'm afraid. All attempts to Not Write This AU have been rather derailed by...certain people. They know who they are.

> #### Allegory
> 
> \ˈa-lə-ˌgȯr-ē\  
>  _noun_
> 
> a story in which the characters and events are symbols that stand for ideas about human life or for a political or historical situation

 

* * *

 

Phryne did not do bedtime, as a general rule. After a long day she rarely had the patience left to cajole and talk and cuddle until the child was asleep. It usually seemed to fall to Jack if he was at home, or Mr. Butler if he was not. But on rare occasions, by necessity or special request, she found herself in her son’s room--Cleopatra tucked in beside him, and woe betide the universe if the damned stuffed dog was missing--to put him to bed.

Jack would tell him stories about his job, couched in terms a four year old could understand. He had caught a man who took someone else’s cake. There was a lady who had no cake at all, but Jack had enough to share. The stories always made Anthony laugh so loudly that Phryne could hear him from the parlour; sometimes she would follow the sound and catch the tail end of whatever absurdity Jack had concocted and the deep chuckles that came as he told it. When Jack eventually slipped from the room, she would greet him with a soft kiss and a quiet ‘I love you’, unable to resist the urge to tell him so.

When Jack was gone, another family member would step in--Mr. Butler, usually, who had discovered he had a real aptitude for character voices--and read whatever book the child had selected from his teeming shelves.

Phryne, however, would tell him stories about two princesses who lived in a sad kingdom. One princess had grown into a queen, the other turned into a fairy by a wicked woodcutter. But before then there had been adventures on the high seas and inside secret passages and down rabbit holes, and those were his favourite of all. Sometimes she told him stories about the fairy princess granting wishes to very good children, or how the older princess had become a queen.

“Was it a knight, Mims?” he had asked the first time, bolting upright in his excitement.

Phryne had raised one eyebrow and he’d lain back down, eyes still wide.

“No knight,” she had said, stroking his hair until he’d calmed once more. “She had to rescue herself.”

He had yawned and muttered that princesses ought to have knights.

“I believe she ended up finding a rather rusty old knight, in the end,” she had said with a smile, aware that Jack had come home and was hovering outside the door. “Very brave and very handsome, and quite happy to become the queen’s captain of the guard. But that came later.”

When the story was done she would kiss his forehead, often leaving a trace of her lipstick behind.

“Good night, Squirrel,” she would say, then leave the room as quietly as possible. When the door was shut she would lean against it, trying to catch her breath. She knew she was not the most affectionate of mothers--she could count on her hands the number of times she had told him she loved without his instigation--but with every story she shared a little part of herself. She hoped it was enough.


	34. 278. Maelstrom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not get the idea that Janey's abduction had to be right around Phryne's birthday out of my head.

> #### Maelstrom
> 
> ˈmeɪlstrəm/  
>  _noun_
> 
> a powerful whirlpool in the sea or a river.  
>  a situation or state of confused movement or violent turmoil.

 

* * *

 

Phryne’s been looking forward to turning thirteen for months. Aunt Prudence promised her a summer holiday, her and Janey both, a whole week without her father and her mother at each other’s throats. She doesn’t know where they were supposed to be going; Aunt P would only say that she would love it.

It hardly matters now. It’s her birthday, and instead of waking up to Janey's excited face she's woken by the sound of her father drunkenly stumbling to bed at five in the morning, of her mother crying, of the pounding of her heart because she had dreamt that Janey wasn’t gone. The police say that they are unlikely to find her, that they’ve arrested the man who took her but he admits nothing; that’s what set her father off this time, if he had needed an excuse.

Together they were the pirate girls of Collingwood, braving the seas without a second thought.  Alone, Phryne is a captain without a first mate, trapped in a maelstrom she cannot see her way out of. She’s not entirely certain she wants to try. 

\---------------

She weathers every year’s storm a little differently, but Phryne finds that the best way to deal with the anniversary of Janey’s death is to party until late turns into early, then spend most of the day asleep. When she eventually wakes she holes up for the evening, alone with her thoughts. It is particularly hard this year; Murdoch Foyle has died, a prison escape gone wrong, and all the answers he held have gone with him.

There’s a knock at the door as she nurses her whiskey, then the sound of Mr. Butler answering it.

“Inspector,” he says, his quiet voice reaching her even in the parlour. “I’m not certain Miss Fisher is receiving visitors this evening.”

Then there is Jack’s murmur of reply, an unexpected but welcome sound that warms her.

“Send him through, Mr. B!” she shouts with false alacrity, a little too loud.

He must have removed his hat before knocking, because Jack is in her parlour too quickly for him to have removed it after she granted him leave. She’s not certain whether it was a liberty or his own deference.

“Miss Fisher,” he says, inclining his head.

She waves him towards the decanter; he is nervous, his every movement so tightly coiled that she wonders how he has not snapped. Then he sits, drink in hand and the tiniest smile on his face, and it is gone. He is merely Jack; sombre and solid even in the midst of her turmoil.

"Sergeant Grossmith has given his full confession," he says.

Grossmith had given his full confession days ago; Hugh had mentioned it to Dot, and Dot had mentioned it to her. But Jack is here tonight, and she does not think it a coincidence though they will both pretend it is.

“Good,” she says, ever so slightly vicious in her delivery

She is still in the midst of the maelstrom; the seas might calm but she has never managed to escape the whirling vortex entirely. But as Jack raises his glass in acknowledgement, she thinks she might just see the shore.  


	35. 427. Sanction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one of those funny ones where I play the the idea of the word without using it, in this case the two opposing meanings of both reprimand and permission. Also a drabble-drabble, which is always fun.

> #### Sanction
> 
> /ˈsaŋ(k)ʃ(ə)n/  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1\. a penalty for disobeying a law or rule.  
>  2\. official permission or approval for an action.

* * *

 

“I love you,” he mutters against her shoulder, teeth dragging across the skin so gently that she arches towards him without thought.

“I swore I would never allow that,” she replies. “No man can hold that power over me.”

His teeth are replaced by lips, a gentle press against the reddened skin before he pulls away.

"Then I will release you,” he says, without hesitation or reprimand, as if he hasn’t followed her halfway around the world at her request.

She considers it for a heartbeat. 

"No,” she says, shaking her head. Holds him close. “No, that’s so much worse.”


	36. 3. Adroit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written to appease certain people. Not, I think, living up to its potential, but as I am not writing any more and would chicken out if I didn't post, you get the messy version. My apologies.

 

> #### Adriot
> 
> /əˈdrɔɪt/  
>  _adjective_
> 
>   
>  1\. expert or nimble in the use of the hands or body.  
>  2\. cleverly skillful, resourceful, or ingenious

* * *

Aggie Collins skidded into the station, exhaling loudly as she shoved her hair out of her eyes.

“Did you hear the news, Uncle Sir?” she exclaimed.

Behind her Mrs. Collins followed, the younger two Collins children with her. She looked exhausted, but gave Jack a wan smile.

“Nell’s sick,” she explained. “Rather ruined today’s plans, but needs must. Is Hugh in?”

Jack shook his head, reaching out to take little Toby from her arms.

“He should be back soon,” he offered. “He’s leading an investigation. Why don’t you come through to the office and wait?”

Dot nodded. “I’ll go make tea, if you’ll take the children in?”

Since Dot Collins was the only person who could make a decent cup of tea with the limitations of the station’s resources, Jack happily agreed. Aggie led the charge, quickly claiming her favourite chair before Theo could beat her to it, sprawling over it with as much force as a six year old could muster.

“How is school, Miss Aggie?” Jack asked.

“Horribly boring,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Did you hear the news?”

“Afraid not,” he said, expecting to hear that their cat had finally had her kittens; Aggie was convinced he should take one when she had.

“Amelia Earhart has gone _missing_ ,” she said, that strange mix of horror and glee only children could manage in her voice.”It was on the wireless and mum said that it’s an awful shame, but I think it’s glorious!”

“You are continuing to expand your vocabulary, I see?” Jack said weakly, taking a ragged breath as he sunk into his chair.

He spared a glance around the office that had been his for--fifteen years? A lifetime, it seemed. Three lifetimes, really--Before, During and After. He rarely noticed it nowadays; it never changed, except to get greyer and more worn. Rather like him, really. Not even happiness--and he was happy, for the most part--could quite slow the progression of age.

“Amelia Earhart is an adventuress,” Aggie said, eyes glittering at the thought.

“She is also a flesh and blood woman,” Jack said before he could stop himself. Then he gave his honorary niece a small smile. “Adventuring is, I suppose, rather glorious.”

_But not for the people left behind._

“I am going to be an adventuress when I grow up,” the girl asserted.

“Mumma says you won’t,” piped up Theo for the first time. “ _And_ she said you mustn’t tell Uncle Sir about the news.”

“Oh!” said Aggie, horrified by the reminder. “I didn’t tell you!”

“Didn’t tell him what, Agnes Phryne Collins?” came Dot’s voice from the door, and the girl squirmed in her seat.

“Nothing, mumma.”

“ _Agnes_?”

“Fine! I told Uncle Sir about Amelia Earhart,” she confessed. “Do you think they will find her?”

Another search Jack had long forced himself to forget sprung to mind--the sudden lack of telegraphs, contacting police in every country in the vicinity of the flight path, taking a leave of absence (the irony of following her then and not before haunted his dreams for years afterwards) to search, the slow resignation--and he just shook his head.

“It’s very difficult, Agnes darling,” said Dot, bringing the tea tray over and giving Jack a sympathetic smile. “Anything is possible, but there is a very real chance they won’t.”

Jack shifted Toby off his lap in order to take one of the teacups, sipping the hot liquid to stop himself from replying.

“Will it be in the newspapers?” Aggie asked.

“I imagine so,” Dot said, taking Toby. “But you aren’t to read those.”

“Why not, mumma?”

“Because you’re six years old and it’s horrid,” replied her mother, and Jack noticed there were tears in Dot’s eyes.

“You know,” said Jack, lowering his cup and attempting to sound jovial. “I knew an aviatrix, once upon a time.”

“Did you really?” asked Aggie, one eyebrow raised skeptically. “Or is this like mumma knowing a lady that raised motor cars?”

“ _Raced_ , Aggie,” Dot said.

“Ahh,” the girl nodded, as if finally understanding. “You can’t raise motor cars; dad says that they are built in a factory.”

“I suspect our race-driving aviatrix friend could likely build a motor car if she had ever set her mind to it. She was remarkably adroit,” Jack said, smiling fondly. Noticing the girl's confusion, he clarified. “That means she was very clever at doing things, Miss Aggie.”

“It was the same lady?”

“It was,” Jack said. “The very last time I saw her she was waving goodbye as she flew to England.”

“And you never saw her again? Why not? I think Australia is far more interesting than boring old England.”

A freak storm. Hastily made plans.

“There is a whole world full of adventures out there, Agnes Collins.”

_And some people were too big to be anything but a legend._


	37. 399. Querulous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have head canons about Miss Charlesworth. This is one of them.

 

 

> #### Querulous
> 
> /ˈkwɛrʊləs,ˈkwɛrjʊləs/  
>  _adjective_
> 
> complaining in a rather petulant or whining manner.

* * *

 

Phryne has to fight for her education. She appeals to her mother and she appeals to her Aunt Prudence, the latter a surprising ally in her quest. It is why her mother, when faced with yet another note about Phryne's querulous nature, is so frustrated.

"What has gotten into you, Phryne my girl?" she asks, and Phryne cannot find the words to explain. She wants to learn. She does. But the rules are stupid and she can't bring herself to care about them; she can already see how to exploit them, how the rules in place keep girls in their place. She finds it chafing, wants no part of them. But she is desperate to learn.

"Eleanor Barton was singing again," she says instead, because she is twelve.

Her mother just sighs.

"Your father wants to pull you out," she says. "Says there's no point in wasting money."

"It's not his money," Phryne says. She knows that it is Aunt Prudence who pays her fees, though the woman denies it. "He wastes all his down the pub."

“Don’t speak about your father that way!” scolds Margaret Fisher. “It’s difficult enough for him without you running that smart mouth of yours.”

Phryne crosses her arms, throws herself onto the nearby kitchen chair with all the indignant anger of youth.

“So that’s it?” she says. “Father says the word and you leap to his side?”

Her mother is saved by answering by a knock on the door of their tiny flat. It is clean--Mrs. Fisher is house proud--but the dirt had long ago worn into every surface; it makes Phryne burn with shame when she thinks of it.

It’s Miss Charlesworth, her teacher. Neither her smile or her manner tolerate nonsense; Phryne likes her very much because of it. Margaret is fawning, all airs and graces she learnt as a child of privilege but are out of place in Collingwood. She’s apologising for Phryne, talking about how they will of course deal with it. Miss Charlesworth brushes her off, polite but firm, and Phryne wishes she knew how to do that too.

“I’ve come to see Phryne,” she says, taking a seat across the kitchen table. “I’ve brought you some books while you are suspended, Miss Fisher.”

She places a selection of books on the table; Phryne glances at the first title. _Anne of Green Gables_ ; she vaguely remembers one of the other girls talking of it. Miss Charlesworth taps one finger on the cover.

“She’s a lot like you,” she says. “Exceptionally bright, but not terribly good at following rules for the sake of following rules. The secret is that she finds which ones are important, and surrounds herself with people who appreciate the distinction.”

Phryne blushes and looks down.

“My father says I’m to withdraw,” she says quietly, and tears prick her eyes. It wasn’t fair.

“I’ll deal with your father,” says Miss Charlesworth. “Read the books. You may keep them, if you like.”

“Thank you, Miss Charlesworth.”

“Just don’t let me down, Phryne Fisher,” Miss Charlesworth says, standing to leave again. She smiles down at her though, and Phryne feels a glimmer of hope for the first time since the suspension was handed down. “I see great things in you.”


	38. 44. Blatant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found myself wondering when Mr. Butler moved from 'Inspector Robinson' to 'The inspector', and when I realised where it appears to have happened...

 

 

> #### Blatant
> 
> /ˈbleɪt nt/  
>  _adjective_ < /p>
> 
> 1.brazenly obvious; flagrant:  
>  2.offensively noisy or loud; clamorous:  
>  3.tastelessly conspicuous:

* * *

Tobias Butler knew how to introduce guests; it was one of the most basic skills a young servant could learn, and a remarkably accurate test of a new hire’s abilities. If they had an innate understanding of the delicate process--it was not as simple as following the rules prescribed by etiquette, a secret the people upstairs were not to know--they would do well. Mere days after coming into her employ, Tobias realised that Miss Fisher's household would prove more difficult than most. The first test was when she brought home a wayward child, in need of a delousing and a hot meal, and then when her police contact arrived to inform her of Welfare’s approval.

“Inspector Robinson is here, Miss Fisher,” he said.

Miss Fisher had many guests; he watched them all come and go and come again, if they were fortunate, filing away the information.

“Detective Inspector Robinson is on the telephone, miss.”

“Mr. Lin has arrived.”

“Mr. Burns is at the door, Miss.”

“Inspector Robinson is here.”

“Mr. Lin.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“Mr. Acker.”

“Inspector Robinson.”

“Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

“Inspector Robinson.”

“Inspector Robinson.”

“Inspector Robinson.”

And then, only a few days earlier.

“A Mr Samson to see you, Miss Fisher, from the circus.”

A given name, a suspicion of intimacy beyond the boudoir. When it was done, the events of a prison escape and a corrupt police officer and Miss Fisher being held at gunpoint (again) played out, she was curled on her seat when there was a knock on the door.

“The Inspector, Miss.”

And if he didn’t clarify, it was because there was no need. It was blatantly clear that to Miss Fisher, there was only one.


	39. 394. Pungent

 

 

> #### Pungent
> 
> /ˈpʌn(d)ʒ(ə)nt/  
>  _adjective_
> 
>  having a sharply strong taste or smell.

* * *

 

"Come after me," she says.

She doesn't think he will. Not literally, at least. Somehow she cannot imagine Jack without Melbourne, Melbourne without Jack; the three hour drive to Queenscliff or the mountain retreat might be about as far as she can stretch her dear detective inspector. It’s not that he hasn’t left before (because he had, for years), or that she somehow thinks the entire city will collapse into chaos if he left (though it might), but he is Melbourne and Melbourne is home. You cannot fit a city inside another city, and Melbourne would be swallowed whole by London’s fog and smoke and cacophony, by the pungent smells of busy streets and markets selling all manners of spices and and perfumes.

For the first time in years, she has a home to lose.

So when he writes, tells her the date his boat will arrive at the London docks, it’s not joy but fear that she feels. Weeks and thousands of miles, ports along the way; it would wear away Melbourne, prime it to be consumed by London’s sheer immensity. One man cannot stand against that.

She meets him at the docks; fear is not a deterrent to Phryne Fisher. He is already different when she sees him; his hair is loose, he wears a sweater instead of a waistcoat beneath his suit jacket, his hat is in his hand because the wind is whipping wildly. Tears are in her eyes as he walks down the gangplank; when he gets closer she smiles and hopes he doesn’t notice. When he gets closer still she launches herself at him, disregarding propriety and common sense and her own self-control, wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his neck before she even stops moving. His hand catches the small of her back, as if by instinct, steadies her.

“Hello, Miss Fisher,” he says, as if it’s been only days and not months.

She doesn’t move, just buries her face deeper and breathes him in as the tears fall.

He smells of home.


	40. 76. Commensurate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I have utterly lost my ability to write and was in the mood for something fluffy, something from the backlogs. It's why the backlog exists. Well, that and so I don't spam you poor readers with 20 chapters in a day. LOL

 

> #### Commensurate
> 
> kəˈmɛnʃ(ə)rət,-sjə-/  
>  _adjective_
> 
>  corresponding in size or degree; in proportion.

 

* * *

“Inspector!” Phryne called, opening the door to Jack’s office with one hand as she balanced a large picnic basket in the other.

He was sitting as his desk reading some sort of document--hopefully not murder related, she’d be quite put out if she was missing an investigation interesting enough to put a furrow in his brow--and looked up as her voice, and for a moment she thought he would smile.

“What do you want now, Miss Fisher?” he asked, clearly intending to sound annoyed but mostly managing a disgruntled amusement.

“Why would you assume that I’m after something, Jack?” she teased, moving closer to lean against his desk. “Can’t a woman bring lunch to a friend without being subjected to police interrogation?”

“I’m sure some women _can_ , Miss Fisher, but you are not among them,” he replied, one eyebrow raised.

“That’s unfair. But if you must know, Dot might have...had a minor disagreement with your constable and is making amends.”

“By plying _me_ with--” he checked inside the basket. “Ham, cheese and pickle sandwiches?”

“Well, no. But I thought you might be in need of some nourishment beyond that awful pie cart, and I was making an appearance either way.”

“At what price?”

The man had no business smirking like that, especially not with a sandwich halfway to his lips.

“Merely an act of friendship. Must you be so cynical?”

“When it’s you?" he asked. "Always. But there’s genuinely no ulterior motive?”

_Of course not_ , she thought. _You look like you’re in dire need of a hot meal and an open ear, but sandwiches will have to suffice._   

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I do hope that you’ll keep it in mind next time I’m hoping for information,” she said lightly.

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he tilted his head in concession, and the smirk on his lips remained. He gave a small moan as he ate, and she wondered--not the for the first time--if he’d be so quietly vocal in bed. That damnable marriage of his was rather vexing on that front, but she enjoyed his friendship enough that she didn’t truly mind.  

They ate the meal in a companionable mood, sometimes speaking but not uncomfortable with the lulls in conversation either. When the sandwiches and fruit were done, Phryne went digging for the biscuits Dot had baked that morning.

“I’m certain I packed some,” she muttered. “Oh, this is ridiculous. I’ll just see if Hugh has any extra--”

Jack held up his hand as if to stop her.

“No need, Miss Fisher. A meal and company as delightful as this deserves a commensurate response,” he said lightly, an easy smile softening his features. “So close your eyes.”

She complied immediately, desperately curious as to where this playful side to Jack would lead.

“And no peeking,” he added.

She could hear him move about the room, unidentified clangs and rattles following him, and she screwed her eyes tighter to resist the urge to peek.

“Alright then, Miss Fisher, you can look now.”

She opened her eyes to find Jack back in his seat, a tin laid on the desk between them. He motioned for her to open it, and she pried the lid off; it was biscuits.

“My secret stash,” he explained. “Helpful for gaining the trust of recalcitrant children and drunkards.”

“And lady detectives!” Phryne said, quickly selecting one and taking a bite. “Oh, these are delicious. Who made them?”

The minute the words were out of her mouth she chastised herself, wondering if it was the last marital duty his wife would perform. Or, on a happier note,  perhaps it was a sister or a mother or an elderly neighbour with a fondness for the nice man next door. Either way, he just smiled more broadly and took his own biscuit.

“That, Miss Fisher, is a mystery you’ll have to solve yourself.”


	41. 7. Alacrity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alacrity is one of those words I use to describe Phryne regularly, so I thought I'd try something different.

 

> #### Alacrity
> 
> əˈlakrɪti/  
>  _noun_  
>  brisk and cheerful readiness.

 

* * *

 

_I have not that alacrity of spirit_   
_Nor cheer of mind that I was wont to have._

-Richard III  Act 5, Scene 3

  -*-

_I miss your laugh_ , Rosie wrote to him. _Sometimes I open a book that we have shared and can hear it trapped in the pages._

_Let it stay there_ , he thought as he read her words. _I sure as hell can’t find it here_.

 -*-

She met him at the dock, waving wildly; her mother would have perished in embarrassment to see it. Other wives and sweethearts were greeted with whoops and cheers and far more affection than was accepted in polite society; but eyes were quickly averted just for that day. He walked to her slowly, his hip injury exacerbated by the long journey; she reached out, expecting him to sweep her into his embrace.

“Mrs. Robinson,” he said instead. His eyes were dull, no hint of her dear Jack behind them. They closed, and when they opened again he gave her a smile. “Hello Rosie.”

He offered his arm to escort her home; a woman could go anywhere on an arm like his.

  -*-

“Must you be so moody?” she snapped.

He didn’t sleep well; she knew because she didn’t either. He was restless. She was worried.

“I’ll take the guest room tonight,” he replied. “Let you get some sleep.”

It’s a permanent move. But plenty of couples sleep in separate rooms; an inconvenience, but nothing more.

  -*-

They sat, her detective inspector who didn’t seem to want anything more and her, curled in their chairs with books in their laps.

“What are you reading?” she asked, realising it was the first time they had spoken all day.

He lifted the novel so she could see the title; she recognised it as one they had read together before. She remembered the way his eyes had danced as they had taken turns reading aloud; he did not seem to find it so amusing this time.

“Joan’s asked me to come help with the kids for awhile,” she said.

_I miss your laugh,_ she thought.


	42. 228. Immutable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a week or so ago there was a Tumblr post going around that said Phryne and Jack needed to become "platonic crime solving partners who sometimes sleep together for fun", and while that is NOT how the good ship Phrack ends in my mind, my subconscious decided that seemed like a great idea to run in weird directions with and I had this dream. Which was ridiculous, but I apparently felt the need to post anyway. (And for the person--you know who you are--who pointed out that I would post it despite my protests to the contrary, I tip my hat.)

 

 

> #### Immutable
> 
> /ɪˈmyu tə bəl/  
>  _adjective_
> 
> Unchanging over time or unable to be changed

* * *

 

It took approximately two months from her return to Melbourne to realise that a romantic relationship that met both their needs was not possible; it bothered her more than it bothered him.

“You’re simply not used to failure,” he teased.

And so they remained friends and occasional lovers, and somehow it worked. And then the rumbles of another war came to pass, and it was a matter of when and not if she would leave once more.

“I’ll wait to see Jane’s babe because she asked,” she said, feet in his lap. “But I can’t sit idle forever.”

He nodded in understanding, facing the same decision. She made it for him, her voice shaking as she poured them both another drink.

“You’ll stay?”

“So you can save the world and take all the credit?”

She turned and smiled at him.

“I can’t save the world, Jack. But as long as I know you are keeping Melbourne in my absence, I’ll have the courage to try.”

She had been young and reckless and free of responsibility the first time, but life had taken its toll; she had a family to worry about now, a home. So he nodded, shouldered some of her burden as she had shouldered his in times of need, a delicate balance they had perfected over the years.

There were letters, when she could manage.

_Hello._

_I’m still alive._

_I miss you._

_We lost good men today._

_Keep Melbourne safe, everything I love is there._

And then, finally, a telephone call. Her exhausted voice coming down the line, unable to even fake the vibrancy she donned like a protective mantle. A date, a time for her ship.

He was the only one to meet her.

“I thought there’d be a party,” he teased, falling into step with her as he always had.

“No,” she said. “No, with Mac gone you were the only one I could face.”

The decades fell away and he remembered his own homecoming. He stopped moving, stared into her eyes deep enough to see the truth. He kissed her gently, his forehead pressed against hers even as he pulled away.

“Take me to your home, Jack,” she breathed into the space between them. “Take me there and make love to me, until I remember or until I forget.”

He drove them carefully, watched her fists clench at every change they passed and left it unremarked. They arrived at his home, much as it had been before she left, and the tension eased from her posture, just a little.

Inside he kissed her once more, removing her hat and placing it on a peg that had always been hers. She nipped forcefully at his bottom lip, huffed when he pulled away.

“I won’t break,” she scolded, and he just shook his head.

“I know. I’m not naive enough to think you would.”

“But?” she challenged.

“But you asked me to make love to you, and I intend to. There’s time for the rest later.”

It was the first chink in the wall she had built. He dismantled it carefully in the following hours, every stroke, every whispered endearment, every caress saying the words neither one of them could voice. _I understand. I love you. It will pass; you will be whole again._

Eventually he brought her to straddle his lap, eased her onto him and watched the minuscule expressions that crossed her face--pleasure and comfort and finally, finally, that last brick crumbling to dust; all her carefully controlled emotions, the loss and the fear and and aching, empty loneliness pouring forth in tears and gasps and mournful release.

“You’re home,” he whispered against her hair, holding her as she shook.

She sobbed against his shoulder for an indeterminate time, her occasional words enough for him to understand, to piece together the news he had read and seen to form a picture.

“I’ll try not to be offended,” he remarked dryly when the tears had stopped, and she began to cry again. Tears of joy mingled with the grief, this time, of pure relief.

“I thought it would be the same,” she confessed quietly. “It was and it wasn’t, and I don’t know which will haunt me more.”

Uncertain how to respond, he pressed his hand to the small of her back to keep her close. He realised he was still inside her, as if he could be anywhere else.

“I have never loved a man the way I love you,” she continued, “as if...” The words crowded together in her throat and she couldn't speak them _. As if it is the immutable nature of the universe, larger than either of us, larger than human understanding._

“I know,” he replied, beginning to move. “I know.”


	43. 450. Stricture

 

 

> #### Stricture
> 
> /ˈstrɪktʃə/  
>  _noun_  
>  1\. a severe criticism; censure  
>  2.(pathol) an abnormal constriction of a tubular organ, structure, or part  
>  3\. (obsolete) severity

* * *

Phryne always began fundraising evenings at her Aunt Prudence’s with the best of intentions. Despite their differences she loved the woman, after all. But there was inevitably a point where the moral strictures of the old guard became too chafing and she would succumb to the urge to do something scandalous; dancing in a manner that bordered on indecent, or enjoying flirtations with multiple men, or openly propositioning her escort. But she _tried_ , and that had to count for something.

It was always her that snapped, not whichever lucky man she had brought along; she had a theory that it was the heavy censure directed at the fairer sex while the rich, bold men that attended these functions were given a free hand to do almost anything. _A stand for equality_ , she would laugh to the women looking on in jealousy instead of condemnation.

Tonight, though, tonight…

Tonight her date had stroked her wrist with his thumb as they climbed the steps, stroked her shoulders as he removed her coat, stroked the back of his knuckles against her spine as he escorted her from room to room.

Tonight her date held her a tiny bit too close for propriety as they tangoed, stayed a little close when the song was done, and was clearly so bored with the idle chatter that he stated bold opinions for the sake of watching the reaction before swanning off to collect them both another drink.  

Tonight her date leaned in close as he came up behind her, his breath tickling her ear.

“I want to take you out of here,” he whispered, voice so quiet and deep she felt more than heard the words. “I want to find a quiet corner and fuck you senseless.”

She made a noncommittal noise, the sort that could encapsulate her growing arousal ( _I should have discovered the pleasures of a man snapping first years ago_ , she thought) and determination to appear disinterested (she was _trying_ to be the dutiful niece) and something her date correctly identified as doubt.

“You may be loud when you come,” he continued, “but if I do my job right you won’t be capable of making a sound.”

She turned, eyeing her date for the first time since he’d returned to her side.

“Why, darling,” she purred. “I do believe that what you’re suggesting would be courting scandal.”

“Only if we get caught, Miss Fisher,” he said with complete confidence, blue eyes sparkling and a wry smile on his lips. “And I am very good at not getting caught.”


	44. 404. Rampant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what this is. I had half a drabble actually using this word--which I might finish and post as a bonus eventually--but then this came out.

> #### Rampant
> 
> /ˈræm pənt/  
>  _adjective_
> 
> 1\. violent in action or spirit; raging; furious:  
>  2\. growing luxuriantly, as weeds.  
>  3\. in full sway; prevailing or unchecked:

* * *

 

He might come after her. He might not. She doesn’t give it much thought (except for when she does) because she can’t.  
( _Can’t risk the distraction. Can’t commit to any one path. Can’t forget the way his chest heaved as they pulled apart, or the unbearable tension of happiness in her own.)_

She dances her way through the journey--there’s a jitterbug in Jakarta, a tango in Turkey, a foxtrot in France--doesn’t stop to breathe or to think or to remember her words (Come after me. Come after me. Come, come after me Jack Robinson because I don’t want to waltz alone) because that’s not who she is.  
( _People change.)_

There’s a man in some tiny little layover stop that keeps her entertained for the better part of two days while the plane is repaired, and if her last living memory is the things he can do with just his thumb and his tongue she’ll die happy; she folds away the memory, to be brought out as an amusing anecdote when the situation calls for it. He doesn’t fill her (his voice and his hands and his truly magnificent cock don’t get under her skin the way she wants no matter how tightly she holds him; he doesn’t leave indelible marks in the secret recesses of her body, fingers in the crook of her elbow and brushed down her neck and holding her upright as she sobs beside her sister’s grave) but she is sated until the next stop, the next opportunity to dance.  
( _She attends balls and galas because she must, but it’s the dancing that goes on in smoky little establishments where booze and sex flow freely that she truly loves; she knows how to dance there, with the freedom to improvise and adapt and lead her partner. She’s never been one to follow the rules._ )

London leads to a letter and another lover; if she’d seen the former first the latter may not have happened. Or maybe it would. She doesn’t give it much thought, once the letter ("I cannot come," written in his famililar scrawl) is in her hands. She’s back in her plane the next day, not stopping to breathe or think or remember the telegraph she sent in reply because that’s not who she is. All she knows is that she can already feel the music thrumming through her veins, that she has carried it with her all this time, that there is a dance waiting for her. She’s not quite sure of the steps, not yet, but the music doesn’t care. So she flies.  
( _Miss me and meet me in Melbourne -(stop)- No murder_ )


	45. 196. Fulsome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I have to blame PlayfulMay for reminding me how much I adore cooking fics and that this was waiting to be written. And aljohnsonwrites and whilenotwriting for discussing the topic with me. ALL OF YOU ARE TO BLAME. Probably set mid season 2ish. Or whenever. 
> 
> Also, after this I only have one prompt word left! So if you want to leave me a number between 1 and 500 (unclaimed numbers can be found [here](http://firesign23.tumblr.com/post/143011980687/500-words-an-update) if you want to check, but don't worry if you don't), feel free! Or if you'd rather have a word for yourself, that's wonderful too!

> #### Fulsome
> 
> ˈfʊls(ə)m/  
>  _adjective_
> 
> 1\. complimentary or flattering to an excessive degree.  
>  2\. of large size or quantity; generous or abundant.

* * *

 

Jack arrived at Wardlow; he had been summoned--there really was no other word for it--by Miss Fisher for dinner, executed via an imperial demand and a coy implication that she had information regarding a spate of burglaries that had recently escalated to murder. She greeted him at the door herself, resplendent in some concoction of fur and silk that made him want to reach out and touch her rather desperately; he was feeling the urge more and more often as of late, remembering the flirtations of the last few months.

“Hello Jack!” she exclaimed, smiling brightly and genuinely pleased to see him. It was worse than when she attempted to seduce him, if he was being honest.

Mr. Butler was nowhere in sight, so he removed his own hat and coat and hung them on the peg. Phryne directed him to head into the parlour and help himself to a drink, and Jack wondered briefly whether she was helping a lover escape undetected via the kitchen door. It would not be the first time, nor was it likely to be the last. But she was back a few minutes later, directing him to the dining room where dinner was already laid out. _Sans_ candles, mercifully.

Dinner was delicious, though unfamiliar.

”It’s _ratatouille_ , Jack,” she said drolly, her accent impeccable. “It’s a French peasant dish. Did you never have it?”

Her head cocked in that familiar manner that meant she was mostly teasing him.

“There wasn’t a great deal of food or cooking while I was in France, Miss Fisher,” was his amused response. Being able to joke about that time was one of the many gifts that had come with her presence in his life, and one he was thankful for.

“No,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “I suppose not. Now, about these burglaries….”

They discussed the case as they ate--she’d been hired by one of the victims, and was positively delighted to hear that the DI on the case was none other than Jack Robinson--but soon enough moved on to other matters. Miss Fisher was an excellent conversationalist, capable of making you feel as if you were the most interesting person in the room. Which was, perhaps, less impressive when you were the _only_ person in the room; he still had not seen Mr. Butler.  

Finishing his meal, Jack dabbed his napkin to his lips.

“That was delicious, Miss Fisher.”

“I will pass your compliments on to the chef,” she laughed.

And while he tried very hard not to delve too deeply into the running of her household--it was bad enough to realise that he had become so regular a visitor that her butler knew all his favourite foods and new things that were just to his taste--it was the perfect opening.

“Where _is_ the esteemed Mr. Butler?”

“In Sydney!” she said brightly. “He’s been there all week; his eldest sister is ill, and he’s gone to help her until she is back on her feet.”

“Ahh,” said Jack. “This is the creation of Miss Williams?”

“Oh, please, Jack. I love Dot dearly, but I would hardly ask her to recreate a provincial French dish without having sampled it at the very least. Anyway, she’s visiting _her_ sister.  No, this was purely Phryne Fisher.”

He tried very hard not to gape; he clearly did not succeed, because she laughed yet again.

“I did not know you cooked, Miss Fisher,” he managed, cursing his voice for sounding so strangled.

“I didn’t, until I met Étienne. Beautiful man,” she said. “Very Gallic. He taught me--”

“Ah!” Jack objected, raising his hands in what he hoped was merely _mock_ surrender. “I’ve heard more than enough. But I shall add cooking to your list of accomplishments. Perhaps it could supplant ‘inveterate troublemaker’ for the coveted first position.”

She smiled at that--until he’d met Miss Fisher Jack had never understood the expression that someone looked like the cat that had eaten the canary, but she did so regularly--and stood to come around the table and remove his plate.

“Careful, Jack, or I might think that false flattery,” she purred into his ear.

He coughed, desperately trying not to imagine other circumstances where her breath might tickle against his ear and failing. And her perfume… no other woman in his acquaintance wore that particular scent, and it was enough to drive him to distraction.

“I am not inclined to give fulsome praise,” he said, impressed that he managed to get all the words out. And even in the right order. She was going to kill him one day, or at least murder his self-control.

“True,” she agreed, withdrawing. “More's the pity. I’ll just put these dishes away, if you want to lay out the draughts board?”

It occurred to Jack for the first time that they were alone in the house. A hasty retreat was called for. But then she _looked_ at him, no lascivious intentions in her eyes, and he sighed. There was no hope for him at all when she did that.

“Of course, Miss Fisher. And this evening’s drink of choice?”

“Surprise me,” she said, and swept from the room with plates in hand like the hurricane she was.

“Right,” said Jack, standing up and heading towards the parlour. “Surprise her. _That_ should be easy.”


	46. 325. Ostensible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after the last prompt I had the silly image of Phryne occasionally creating past lovers to explain her skills because it's fun to goad Jack just a little.

> #### Ostensible
> 
> /ɒˈstɛn sə bəl/  
>  _adjective_
> 
> 1\. outwardly appearing as such; professed; pretended:  
>  2\. apparent, evident, or conspicuous

* * *

 

Their suspect was on a farm nearly an hour out of town; Jack gave her outfit one quick glance over--white trousers, heels, a flowing blouse with an attached scarf--and merely raised an eyebrow.

“I’m just talking to the man, Jack,” she laughed. “I’m hardly going to be chasing him across a pig sty dressed like this.”

Which was, incidentally, _exactly_ what she ended up doing. It was going remarkably well, really, until she lost a shoe in the mud as she attempted to vault the fence. Jack--damn his chivalry--turned instinctively to help, the hesitation enough for the man to pull further ahead.

Well, she couldn’t have that. Thankfully there was an axe left propped against the fence, so she picked it up and threw it with complete precision-- _thwunk!_ \--just past the man and into the side of the barn. He flinched, stumbled; Jack put on a burst of speed and caught him before he could stand, yanking his arms back to cuff him. When the prisoner was secured Jack looked up, chest heaving and his hat at just the wrong angle.

“Where did you learn to do that, Miss Fisher?” he panted, and she decided that one day soon she was going to get him to repeat the performance in the boudoir. Maybe that trick she’d picked up from Pierre, or that clever little motion with her hands that made Hamish nearly pass out? Half the fun would be finding the method of his undoing.

“Canadian lumberjack!” she said brightly. “A shocking amount of plaid, ginger beard, burly….”

Jack did not even blink. Well, fine then.

“Laurence Tremblay,” she continued as he hauled the suspect up and headed towards the police vehicle, stopping long enough to retrieve her shoe. “He had the most enormous--”

“Ah! No, Miss Fisher.”

Success.

“I was going to say muscles Jack, though that was also impressive.”

“I do not know why I continue to ask,” he said dryly. “Will you come by the station once you’ve changed?”

“I wouldn’t miss this interview for the world, inspector. Give me twenty minutes--ten at the speed you drive--and I’ll join you.”

He nodded, climbing into the driver’s seat of the police vehicle. Phryne headed towards the Hispano, thinking of Laurence. Who was a burly redhead, really, even if not quite the way Phryne had portrayed her. Laurence was a Canadian nurse Phryne had known during the war, and rather disappointingly only interested in the opposite sex. She had passed on the axe-throwing knowledge after one particularly late night of drinking shortly after Armistice Day; where the woman found an axe in the middle of Paris Phryne never thought to ask.

But, honestly, it made a _much_ better story this way.


	47. 201. Gloss

 

> #### Gloss
> 
> /glɒs, glɔs/
> 
> _noun_  
>  1.a superficial luster or shine; glaze  
>  2\. a false or deceptively good appearance.  
>  3.Also, glosser. a cosmetic that adds sheen or luster, especially one for the lips.
> 
> _verb (used with object)_  
>  4\. to put a gloss upon.  
>  5\. to give a false or deceptively good appearance to:

* * *

 

When he meets The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, she is gloss personified; from the lustrous black cap of hair to her scarlet lips, her immaculate clothes and effortless air. The sleekness of her Hispano-Suiza--never has he seen a car match the driver so perfectly, as if it is an extension of herself--and her house in St. Kilda. She is trouble wrapped in furs and French perfume, and he fears that to touch her would be to mark her--a superficial smudge, nothing more, and easily wiped away.

 

The first time he sees Phryne, it’s late and raining and he really did need her signature on a witness statement. She answers the door herself, wrapped in a silk robe because she would not be herself without some sheen. But her hair is mussed and soft, her lips bare, and he forgets why he came. He apologises for the late hour, notes the file in his hand, mutters an explanation; she smiles in return, steps aside to let him in even though she was headed to bed. He apologises--profusely--even as he crosses the threshold.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jack,” she says. “You’re always welcome here.”

He doubts that. He sees too well that she has a busy social life, that she is surface gloss some days and multi-faceted diamonds the next, but always untouchable and shining and nearly impossible to see past the reflection of who she allows herself to be. But he learns that sometimes--not often, but sometimes, when the hour is earlier enough or late enough, when she is tired enough, or vulnerable enough, or happy enough to allow the facade to fall away--she is just Phryne. And he likes her all the more.


	48. 144. Elucidate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gaslightgallows number! And I didn't even realise it when I wrote it, so the subject matter is a complete coincidence. :-D

 

> #### Elucidate
> 
> /ɪˈl(j)uːsɪdeɪt/  
>  _Verb_
> 
> Make (something) clear; explain.

* * *

“Jack Robinson, you’ve been holding out on me,” she laughed, gloriously naked and alive and looking thoroughly ravished. “Wherever did you learn to do that?”

He considered and discarded several joking options, a Parisian acrobat and a Swiss goat herder among them, deciding that any real hopes they had of making something more would be to be truthful. Teasing, yes, but truthful.

“Benefits of extensive reading,” he said diplomatically.

She laughed again.

“Oh, dear Jack. Did you spend the whole journey holed up in your cabin, studying for for this examination?” she teased. “Or earlier perhaps; after my fan dance? Or that kiss at Cafe Replique?”

“Earlier,” he replied.

“Oh, that _is_ intriguing. It couldn’t have been the sight of me after our first case that set you off, could it?” she pouted flirtatiously, trailing a hand down his chest. “Me, sweating and naked at your feet? I wouldn’t blame you if it did; I was certainly eyeing you, you dour dark horse.”

“Miss Fisher, you are making the rather large error of assuming that I learnt for _your_ benefit. I had a wife for sixteen years before you ever stormed into my life.”

From the change in her demeanour it was not the right thing to say, though he was not entirely certain _why;_ the safest thing would be the turn it back to himself. He smiled self-deprecatingly.

“When you’re both virgins, the whole thing requires education of some sort. That first time was _dire_. Thank heavens it wasn’t the wedding night.”

She smiled at him, somehow both amused and affectionate.

“That sounds dreadful. My first time was with Guy’s friend James, and while it lacked a little finesse he did have some clue what he was doing.”

“Lucky you,” Jack replied. “I still think it’s a miracle Rosie even spoke to me afterwards.”

“Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad,” laughed Phryne. “She married you, after all.”

“Yes, well, all the same… not what I would have wanted,” he said, old regrets making themselves known.

Phryne seemed to notice, leaning in to kiss him again.

“You’ve certainly been a diligent student,” she said, then smiled brightly as if she could banish shadows through sheer force of will. “And I suspect that there’s more to uncover. Please tell me she wasn’t your first kiss too; that might be too sweet for words.”  

“Uh, no,” he said. “First girl I kissed was Eleanor Abnett.”

And with any luck, she would accept--

“Girl?” she asked, one eyebrow arched.

Well, damn it all.

“First kiss was Walter Moore, a very charming boy in my year.”

“You _are_ a dark horse,” she remarked, reaching out to touch him. “What happened?”

Jack shrugged. “It never got beyond kissing, then he started stepping out with his sister’s best friend. Then I started stepping out with Eleanor, then the police academy, then Rosie. I hadn’t thought about it in years.”

“Do you regret it?”

“What, kissing him?”

“No, not doing more about it. I know some very open-minded men--”

He smiled.

“I believe you might be the only woman in my acquaintance that would even think to ask that,” he said fondly. “But no, thank you. I’ll have enough trouble trying to keep up with you.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” she laughed. “And now that we’ve cleared that up, you could always demonstrate other… what was it? ‘Benefits of extensive reading’?”

He grinned. “I do so value education.”


	49. 23. Anticipate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Bumblemama

 

> #### Anticipate
> 
> anˈtɪsɪpeɪt/  
>  _verb_
> 
>   
>  1\. regard as probable; expect or predict.  
>  2\. act as a forerunner or precursor of.

* * *

 

He doesn’t seem at all surprised to learn that there are times she likes to dictate their encounters; and while she can tell that the ornery part of him is doubtful, at least in the beginning, he follows commands so beautifully. It takes him longer to realise that she is serious about the alternative, and when he does he shakes his head in amusement.

“Why?”

“I thought you would have learnt the answer to that by now,” she purrs, nudging him gently with her foot as she sips her whiskey. “And your Inspector Robinson voice is ever so appealing. You could just… pretend I’m part of your investigation.”

“Not all of us are inclined to sleep with suspects,” he says dryly, and she grins; he’s thinking about it, at least.

It doesn’t convince him immediately. She didn’t expect it to.  But eventually he has her over the table, her hands pinned against her back with one of his, the other teasing her until her knees want to give out. (They don’t; she’s pretty sure it’s ninety percent spite keeping her upright; the other ten is the knowledge that he expects some sort of defiance and she never disappoints.) He’s inside her, unrelenting and yet somehow tender, and she coils tighter and tighter until she wants to sob, bites her lip to choke the sound back.

She loves it, that knife edge of sweet anticipation. The exquisite promise of immense pleasure just out of reach, until finally (finally) he leans forward, catches the lobe of her ear between his teeth and whispers for her to come apart.


	50. 408. Recherché

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've managed to (mostly) keep track of who prompted which numbers now; this one is from gaslightgallows.

> #### Recherché
> 
> /rəˈʃɛːʃeɪ/  
>  _adjective_
> 
> rare, exotic, or obscure.

 

* * *

 

Even as a girl in Collingwood, Phryne had recherché tastes. When she came into money, her first move was to learn how to invest it so she always had it to spend. Then she indulged her every whim: Russian caviar and French champagne, exquisite artworks, silks and furs and satins all impeccably tailored, Columbian emeralds and Australian sapphires (the latter she chose as a bit of home, a silly little secret just for her), parties and dancing and men, staff to handle the myriad mundanities of life.

As she removed a swallow pin, she regarded it carefully. It was nothing more than enamel and fake gemstones. Pretty, but commonplace. She opened her chest of drawers and removed a small lockbox, fireproof and easily grabbed in an emergency. She opened it; nestled on a bed a silk was her grandmother’s brooch, saved by an understanding constable and carefully hidden from her father forever after. It had been Nanny Fisher’s favourite, and passed on to Phryne on her twelfth birthday; it had followed Phryne across continents and years, even when her more expensive possessions were left behind. She placed this new pin beside it, allowing her finger to trace across it once more.

She was a woman of recherché tastes, and she indulged them. There was no item in the world quite as rare as a gift given in love, with no motive except to make the recipient smile. And those could not be bought.


	51. 366. Pragmatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gaslightgallows prompt, and inspired by Meldanya. Ed Prentice (and his delightful but very off-screen wife) appear in Fear Not The Bugle, and she suggested that he might ahve been the man Jack 'had a word with' regarding Jane in Ballarat.

> #### Pragmatic
> 
> /praɡˈmatɪk/  
>  _adjective_
> 
> dealing with things sensibly and realistically in a way that is based on practical rather than theoretical considerations.

* * *

 

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson looked across the desk at Ed Prentice, a small man who always attempted to compensate for the perceived flaw with as much sartorial flash as possible. Unfortunately, it didn’t appear to make a lick of difference. He was, however, a kindred spirit in his loathing of administrative nonsense and was Jack’s best chance in his current quest.

“How long have you known…” Ed glanced at the paperwork before him. “Mrs. Fisher?”

“It’s Miss, I believe. I am to understand that she is the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher--her father’s a baron or some such nonsense,” Jack said.

He did, in fact, know far more than he allowed; he’d investigated the woman thoroughly during (and, he would admit, after) the Andrews murder. Any woman that managed to cause a small explosion within days of arriving in his city warranted investigation. Especially when she’d set herself up as a lady detective with no training but a surprisingly keen nose. What he found--a tough childhood, a father with a long criminal record and a juvenile record of her own, a missing sister, a sudden inheritance and journey to England--surprised him, but made a strange sort of sense.

He _liked_ her, against his better judgement and probably against the well-being of his sanity.

“Three weeks?”

“And you’re vouching for her on three weeks’ acquaintance?” Ed asked; it was terribly unconventional, and a risk to his own position.

“She’s the niece of Prudence Stanley, whose reputation is unimpeachable. She’s proven herself intelligent and resourceful, and she certainly has the means to care for the girl.”

“Sufficient funds are only the beginning of the requirements for caring for a child.”

“I will vouch for her.”

“How long have we known each other, Jack?”

“Six years, give or take.”

“And in all that time, you’ve never intervened on a Welfare case.”

“Look, Ed, you asked me my opinion on Miss Fisher’s proposal. I am vouching for her, as an officer of the law,” Jack said, and saw that Ed was not convinced. Time to appeal to his inherent distaste for paperwork. “More practically, Miss Ross is fourteen and has already run from Welfare repeatedly. Miss Fisher is asking for no compensation for the care of the girl. Allowing them to remain together will save your offices filing paperwork on a runaway, save you money, and--I feel this is most important--save you the headache of dealing with Miss Fisher and her aunt when she is determined to have her way. And make no mistake--she will have her way.”

“Jack--”

Jack cut him off, determined to get to the crux of the matter. “Your dear wife, Enid?”

Enid was a _force majeure_ by reputation; wonderful woman, frighteningly efficient.

“Ahh, yes?”

“I want you to imagine two of them.”

Ed coughed.

“221B The Esplanade, St. Kilda is the address? For our records, I mean.”

“I do believe it is,” Jack said.

“I’ll telephone her immediately.”

“I need to speak with her about another matter. I am happy to inform her of your decision,” Jack said, trying not to wonder exactly how much trouble he was courting with that little lie.


End file.
